Legend of Zelda: Interlinking
by cheddarbiscuit
Summary: His Boss' code name was The Dentist. If he did not like you, he pulled your teeth. Future Dystopian Hyrule.
1. Chapter 1

Legend of Zelda: Interlinking

She hissed, with the urgency of the gospel, "Don't drink the water." Future Dystopian Hyrule.

Disclaimer: Do not own—spent two days making sure all of the OC are as unoriginal as possible.

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Chapter one:

Link bobbed out of his sleepy daze just long enough to think to himself: _It's flipping cold._

He slouched against the plastic wall of the bus stop, against the cold, and tugged the edges of his knitted cap down over his pointed ears. He wished two years had not passed so it would still fit him, and his shirts would not be so tight-fitting and worn down. He breathed into his cupped hands and tucked them between his arms and sides, then he rested his head against the hard, grimy plastic and shut his eyes again.

He was bundled as best he could be in three shirts, one jacket, and a knitted cap. All of it was too small. He had hit a terribly powerful growth spurt at fifteen, jeans had become too short and too tight around the hips, the work boots he had managed to buy had almost gone to waste, and the knitted shirts strained with the stretchmarks on his shoulders and back. He could not button his jacket, and all of his shirts were slashed from the collar down, so he could fit into them, except for the plain white muscle shirt he wore underneath to keep people from noticing his protruding clavicle bones, that was cut down the back, the ribbing stretched tightly behind the fraying, make-shift V-neck of the white and green shirts. He would replace them when the sleeves tore off.

With out opening his eyes, he tugged down a long white sleeve from behind the cuff of his denim jacket. He wore no gloves or scarf. He had none. It was so unseasonably cold. It was supposed to be Spring. Early Spring. A harsh wind kicked up and he shivered violently where he stood. It was overcast, drizzling slightly. He had heard there would be a freeze come Dinsday—or Vitasday. Dinsday seemed like a strange day for a freeze. Maybe it was Vitasday.

He did not want it to freeze. Not again. Deep winter had been cold enough—why could late winter not be warmer, more easily yielding to spring? It was an awful year for cold—wasn't it always? Yes. It was always. But Aryll was going to be fifteen soon, less than a week. No. More than a week. Two weeks.

Anyway. He did not want it to freeze, least, not then. He had the day off—it came on Hyliasday. They were going to he park. It was not much, but it was something.

A bus stopped. The sound of the brakes woke him up again. He had become quite the light sleeper in his seventeen years. He breathed into his hands again. They reeked of latex and cold, stale blood. It never came off. He retched at the smell, shuddered, and looked back at the Romani Beef Processing Plant. His stomach turned a little more. He hated beef. The smell of it cooked brought the stench of it raw, the sound it made when it went through the saw—the loud and ringing cry as the blades cut through air and the motor ran, then the gritting rumble that shook his hands when the dull teeth hit thick bone. And the smell. The dye, the plastic, the latex in the cold. It gave meat an unbearable accompanying smell.

That kind of thing was going to put you off meat. Way off meat. Link certainly would not begrudge anyone who wanted to_ eat_ meat—but the thought of it made his stomach turn. It was not for him anymore. Not since money had gotten scarce. Not since he had taken that job. He felt dishonorable after he took off that bloody plastic apron at the end of each shift. He heartlessly cut up corpses for a living.

Suffice to say the days of happy, blissfully unaware cattle were gone. Long gone. Part of him yearned for a nice, pastoral, subsistence life where families survived by grown their food, not paying through the nose with wages they earned providing for strangers richer than them. There was honor in hunting, pride gained from a sportsmanlike kill and quick cleaning of game. There was happy simplicity in farming, gathering and barter. At least—it had to be better than this—inadequate sleep in a bus station and the constant smell of latex.

The bus' engine turned over and revved. Link turned his face away from the plant and settled in against the plastic wall again. It had been clear once, a long time ago, now it was sort of greenish and he probably should not be putting his face near it—but whatever. The hydraulic brakes squeaked and hissed and released. The door shut and it rolled away from the bus stop. Link could have checked for a vacant seat—but he was too tired.

And, finally, he managed to actually drift off into a quiet, black sleep.

Then someone rammed into his left shoulder, slamming him into the plastic and nearly bringing him down to the ground with him. Other than that, he was fine. His 'assailant' however, took a nasty tumble down into the pavement. The world came into focus and his lip was split open by the impact, his ears ringing. He licked it clean, spit out a bit of blood—he really tried not to think about the grime on the wall—and hissed to himself, "Din's Fire!"

Then, because he was still a mostly good person, and accidents happened, he knelt down to help her up.

"I-I'm so sorry!" she muttered. She raised a hand in a blue mitten to her fuzzy white earmuff.

She was warmly dressed; in good, thick jeans and leather boots, with thick socks between them. She wore a light purple woolen coat. Real wool, not the polyester imitation, it still smelled like moth balls—even this deep into the cold season. Link felt it against his bare palms as he helped her to stand. He envied the mittens. She got to her feet and those mittens brushed the blonde hair from her eyes. She looked frazzled, pale. Her hair was in a tight braid, but a few strands were still coming down over her high forehead, tickling the tip of her sharp nose, gracing her high, rounded cheek bones.

"I'm so sorry."

"It's fine—are you hurt?"

"I'm so sorry." she said again.

"No—really, I'm okay."

"I'm so sorry."

"I think you need to sit down."

He was pretty sure repeating words were a sign of brain damage.

She said it a fifth time, and again. Link stopped trying to speak. He just watched, took in the details of her face. She was his age, blue eyed, a dignified kind of pretty. It was hard to tell under the coat, but he doubted she was as skinny as he was, and if she was, it certainly was not poverty. She touched his face, his ears, those mittens were the warmest things he had felt all day, all the while muttering, "I'm so sorry."

"Okay!" he raised his hands to bat her away and she suddenly seized his left hand, and took his fingers between those burning hot mittens. She starred at the back of his hand, totally silent, like she could see something he could not. Then, she stroked the back of his hand, once—blinked for the first time their entire encounter—twice—and smiled, breathing in quickly, as if in joy and relief, a third time, and she raised her blue eyes to his face, she brushed the dirty blonde hair out of his eyes her fingers finding their way to the tip of his ear, then to his split lip.

Slowly, with shaking hands, she removed her blue scarf from her neck and draped it over his head, wrapping it around his neck once before leaning in close.

Now that the scarf was gone, he could see a black memory stick on a lanyard around her neck, but his focus was quickly drawn back to her eyes, the smell of her perfume mixed with sweat, the beads of it lining her forehead and upper lip, and then to the cracking rouge on her mouth. She hissed, with the urgency of the gospel, "_Don't drink the water_."

She gave the scarf an affectionate stroke, it felt like silk against his cheek, he did not know the material. He probably never would. It was burning hot against his chilled skin, warmed by the heat of her neck, scented with her perfume. She smiled, as if she were about to ask his name and say hello, eyes going from his left to his right. She tucked the memory stick down the front of her coat, not once looking away from him.

And then she ran.

Link felt like a fish. He stood there, trying to remember how to speak so he could ask her what in the name of the sacred realm she thought she was doing in this part of down dressed like that and saying such things, but she had vanished down the street and he did not really feel like giving chase. He needed to get home—his bus was coming soon. The encounter had lasted less than two minutes. The blood rushed to his ears, making them burn with the new shelter from the cold. He wondered what it was made of, then figured it was just heat and perfume.

A fish in a scarf.

His bus came, and it was only then he realized that she could have been an elaborate, jarring, pickpocket. He searched for his wallet. It was, somehow, still there. He brushed down the makeshift hood and paid his fare, then he went to the back of the bus, but the rear doors. It was not getting dark anymore—the days were lasting a little longer. There was that. He liked the sun, longer days. The bus ride took fifteen minutes, and made two other stops, so there was no point in trying to get anymore sleep. After the little episode, he did not feel like it, anyway.

The burning of his ears and the occasional tickle of the scarf reminded him that no, it was no a dream.

It was a twenty minute walk from the bus stop to the house he shared with his little sister in the part of town that no one really cared about. There was power, there was water—the best place there was the school, where Aryll was most of the day, where she was able to get breakfast and lunch, but it was far from the house, the bus stop for the school was only a five minute walk away—but she always got there around three forty five. He did not get home until—he looked at his watch—six ten. That was three hours. She could be plucked right of the street and he would not know for another three hours. And it would be fifteen minutes before he could get to a phone, if he ran. And he would run.

She was fourteen, though. Well past the age where she could be plucked too easily. He still worried, though. He would always worry. He was a terrible coward.

He put the scarf up again. It was too fancy at thing for him—he would give it to her. It would make a nice gift.

Someone called out, "Still in too-small clothes?"

Link did not say a word.

"We could find some work for you!"

Link gave them a brief side glance. A little finger of the local arm of the city-wide Moblin... Well, _mob_, with sharp teeth protruding from under their lower lips, and piggish snouts. Link was not frightened—this was a frequent exchange. He waved them away.

"Better than what you got!"

"I don't think you'd want a Hylian named Link." he replied.

"I don't think Hylians named Link would get caught so easy."

He turned around and walked backwards, "I'm too smart to risk it."

He knew—and they knew—that his name was half of a death sentence. Suspicion was the other half. Despite all of this, half the male population was named Link—even the Moblins had been caught up in the trend. Personally, Link knew of one Moblin, a guilt-free cab driver, that shared his name. Ganondorf, or even just the Gerudo, wasted no time wasting a fellow named Link, bonus points if he was blonde, left handed, and had even a single drop of Hylian blood in him, but folks kept naming their sons Link religiously—they just wanted their Hero of Time back so badly they were willing to risk their boys getting shot on sight.

There were not as many Zeldas—no one wanted their daughters to be the one Ganondorf abducted.

"Do good by your little sister, though."

By Nayru, he would.

"And Marin."

"Marin does good on her own."

"You'll fall someday."

He shook his head and turned around, saying over his shoulder, "I'm a horrible coward."

One said something he did not hear—probably that he was right. He passed by a quickly spray-painted Tri-force on the wall, like a little taunt. He laughed to himself. Him, in a life of crime? He'd be dead in a day. Less than a day. He made his way past the little temple of Farore. It was her day, so those that wanted to went to her churches and shrines and temples and muttered prayers. Link looked at the white building, and nodded his head as he passed. He did not stop or slow. He felt the Goddesses had been slacking, or perhaps they were gone altogether. Or perhaps they did not care. They seemed to have no use for the world, or for him. He had no use for them.

Yet—he still felt the need to make them know that he was there, even if he was a horrible coward. He was there, and he was willing.

And that was that.

He hurried on.

It was another five minutes before he reached the run down house he shared with Aryll, and Marin, and the other occasional drifter—because why bother with protection if there was nothing to steal? Sure, the doors locked, and Link and Marin both had keys, but there was nothing inside to take away. It was not much to describe; weak, pink brick, with some green moss and climbing jasmine vines creeping up the edges, over grown lawn, run down fence. The neighborhood had once been a nice place, before his parents died, and then his grandmother. The lights were on. He sighed with relief. Aryll had made it home. The door was unlocked, nothing unusual.

Aryll was lying on the couch. Link put on a fake smile, "Hey, kiddo."

"Hey."

"Dinner?"

"Not—" she sounded sick, "Not hungry."

He stripped off the scarf, the jacket, and the green short-sleeved shirt, then knelt down by the couch. He felt her forehead, she was feverish. He rubbed her shoulder, "Just started today, huh?"

"Yes."

"Want anything?"

"I don't think I could keep it down."

"You've been throwing up?"

She shook her head, "No, can't swallow."

He ruffled her blonde hair, "Try." he said, "For me."

Aryll nodded. As Link walked into the kitchen, he saw a half empty glass of water by the sink and he thought about what the girl at the bus station had said to him. He pushed it from his mind. She was just being crazy. She had just done it for a laugh—play a joke on the lower class. It was probably a new trend. He was going to play it on the safe side, though. He poured her a small glass of milk and made her sit up to drink it.

She was shaking, brows knitting in pain.

Little streams of red danced through the milk, and ran down the outside of the glass when she took it away from her lips. His heart skipped a beat—before he could say a word, Aryll lurched forward, retching. Blood, and phlegm, and bile, spilled from her nose over her fingers and onto her knees.

"It's okay." he said, "Try again. Just a little bit."

"I can't—" she took a breath—it was shallow, "I can't swallow. I can't breathe."

"We'll go to the hospital, don't worry. Drink."

"Can't—afford it."

She was right. Link knew she was right. He ignored it, "Yes we can. Drink the milk, come on." She did, and managed to get it down in little sips. Link put on his third shirt again,and the jacket, but left the scarf by the door. He left a note where Marin would see it._ Hospital. Don't drink the water. Please. Don't drink the water._ Then he helped Aryll into her coat and boots, she was sluggish, and tried to cheer her up with the scarf. It failed. He put it around her neck and over her head, Shut off the lights and locked the door behind them. Marin would get the message. Locked door meant something was wrong.

"How will—we get there?"

"Church." he said, "It's not too late. Someone is bound to be there." he told her. She was stumbling. He hooked her arm over his shoulder and stooped down so he could help her walk. It took a while to get there, but the lights were on, and there were people inside. He slammed the door, making sure it attracted attention. When all eyes were on him, he said, "She's sick—we need a ride to the hospital."

They stood up, the priest took a moment from blessing a woman kneeling up front to say, "Bring her some water."

"No." Link said, "Not water. Don't drink the water."

He helped Aryll collapse gently on the floor, and he said again, "Don't drink the water—even if you're sure its safe."

There were others crowding around them, Linebeck, who owned a curio shop that was curiously far away from this particular Temple of Farore, a couple of others he did not recognize, and Link the Moblin. He was the one that moved closest, and hoisting little Aryll up by the waist with out a word and helping her out the door and into the backseat of his cab—she tall enough to just barely stretch out on the worn down blue upholstered sheets. Link strapped her in with the middle seat belt, then climbed into the front seat, with a quickly whispered, mostly in fear, mostly in guilt, "I don't have money."

"She's not sick everyday." Link the cab driver replied. He started the engine as Link bucked himself in, then twisted around to look at his sister. He did not pay attention to the roads they took. The cab was a van—the only thing that identified it as a cab was a hastily hand-painted list of prices on the passengers side door. There were two seats up from, with a console between them. Link reached over it and grabbed Aryll's hand. It had gone clammy. She muttered something, but Link could not hear it.

"Stay with me, Aryll." he said begged no one.

She did not respond. She did not even look at him or turn her head. She was getting worse. Her hand was cold, but her face was bright red and warm to the touch. He pulled to a stop in front of the emergency room, and did not get out of the car, and did not turn the engine off. Before Link to wonder out loud how they would get home, he said, "I'll come back. Marin goes to the church—Preist'll tell her. She's smart. She'll wait."

That was true. Marin was more religious than he was.

"Thank you, I—"

"She doesn't get sick everyday." he said again, "But you can't afford this anyway. I don't kick people when they're already down."

It was true. He helped Aryll into the emergency room—and it was flooded with cases like hers. Entire families in pain—chemical burns on hands and faces. Some unlucky woman had taken a shower in it—what ever it was. He set Aryll down in a chair and checked her in. It looked to be a long wait, but as long as she did not drink any more, she could not get any worse, right? They handed out a whitish, foggy drink—they said it was magnesium and it would help until they could do more—and bottled water that they promised was safe to drink. When they did, Link realized just how parched, and starving, he was. He had not had a bite since that morning. He did not say a word about it to Aryll, though. He just made sure she drank her water and made sure she stayed alive, shifting his thumb occasionally to check her pulse while she slept against his shoulder.

He worried. He worried about Marin on the road, he worried about Aryll slipping away right beside him and he said to himself that everyone in the ER could die if it meant she lived. And he worried about the money.

He did not want to go—but they had nothing to pawn to Linebeck that could possibly be the same as the cost of any treatment—unless it was the house, but he doubted that. Linebeck would not take that house, or anything in it. Marin arrived then, feet moving quickly in those work boots he had outgrown as soon as they had bought them, red hair loosely pulled back and frizzing. The doctors whisked Aryll away. Link could not stay. Not for this. He had to leave, so while Marin was distracted with the doctors he went to the cab driver in the parking garage and said quickly, before he lost his nerve, "Take me back. I have to go take care of something."

There was a heavy pause, and unspoken understanding that almost became a tangible thing in the air between them, and the Cab Driver said, "Okay."

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I've got those First Fanfic Jitters all over again! Drop a review—also tell your friends!


	2. Chapter 2

Interlinking

(Disclaimed.)

If you don't listen to Flobots—start listening to Flobots.

It's what I'm listening to when I'm writing this fic. Go do it.

Even if you hate rap—go do it. It's good rap.

* * *

Chapter two:

"This is where I leave you." He said. His face was set in a frown, tusks digging into his laugh lines. "Walk two blocks, take a left—there's an alley way."

"I thought you were clean as a whistle."

"That's because this is as far as I go." he said, his eyes never wavered from the road in front of them, the reflective white paint of the side walk, "You're on your own. I'm going back to the hospital. You know your own address. I can't loiter here."

That was true.

"Thank you." Link said. He opened the cab door an stepped out onto the street. He looked down the two blocks he was supposed to walk. They were the longest he had ever seen, boxed in by brick buildings that seemed to loom over him in the night. It was even colder now—what was worse was that it was one or two in the morning. He had work and he needed to sleep, but he was too shaken. The streets were completely abandoned. He did not recognize this location—but there was a lot of New Hyrule he had not seen. He tensed up, hands balling into fists, his back arching forward into a steeled, terrified slouch. He folded his arms and walked forward, crossing in front of the cab. He watched his shadow mirror his steps and stretch before him like a giant. His shadow did not tremble. His shadow was brave. He made an effort to stride more like his shadow.

He wavered in his path. The closer he got the tighter his belly pulled and the faster his heart fluttered. He did not want to do this. He was terrified. He should no to this. Marin would kill him—if someone else did not him to him first.

One block down.

He let out a breath in the chilly air, it billowed up in front of him in a fine mist. He inhaled again. _No choice._ He reminded himself.

He heard the cabbie drive off, pulling away the light behind him, taking away his shadow. He felt stripped with out it. He became aware of the sound of his own footsteps. They were loud—unnerving.

He went left—there was the alleyway, a little narrow space between a dentist's office and an insurance office. He should take out a policy on himself.

He followed a loud bass rumble to a smoke-filled basement that attached to an insurance office (maybe he should take out a policy somewhere else). He knocked on the door and waited. Nothing happened. He knocked again, not with his knuckles, but with the side of his fist. Still—no one responded. He took this as a chance to turn back and never return—but he could not. This was his only choice, and this was his only chance.

"Hey!" he shouted, pounding on the door again. No one came. He tried the handle, found it unlocked, and felt very stupid. The music surged forward, hit him in the face, rumbled between his ears. Colored lights flashed, smoke and artificial fog billowed up, kicked out the door a little bit, as well as a welcome blast of warm air. One or two of them turn his way and looked him over—he was one of the only humans in the place. The one he had seen just a few hours ago came up to him and gave him a hearty shake.

Did they know? He wondered. No one seemed to be sick or burned. Maybe it hit some areas sooner than others. He did not get a chance to ask.

"Well, look what we have here!"

"Yes." he tried to sound casual, "I'd like some work after all."

"So—what happened?" he asked with a curious, teasing grin, "What makes our local Hero of Time want to join the dark side?"

"My sister was poisoned."

The Moblin—it was worth pointed out that his name was Larry—tugged him inside. He looked up the stairs into the night, then closed the door. It became much harder to hear him. "Is she alright—Is she alive, I mean?"

"I—I don't actually know. She was alive when I left."

"Right—well." Larry said, "Hands against the wall."

Link obeyed. He pressed his hands flat against the wall, held his arms straight, about two inches about his shoulders. Larry gave him a pat down, checking his jeans and boots for blades, and his chest for a gun. There were none to find, but Link understood the situation enough to bear with it, so he kept his mouth. It was over quickly, with no harm done, and Larry asked, "How'd you get here?"

"Cab driver."

"Oh—" There was a pause, "Sorry about this."

He grabbed his hands and crossed them behind his back at the wrists. He secured them with plastic zip-ties. "Ow!"

"And sorry about this."

He put a bag over his head. It smelled like blood and bile and twenty different people. Also flour. It was an old flour sack.

"It's fine." Link said, "So long as you don't shoot me."

"No—we won't be killing you." Larry answered him, "Going for a little drive." he called over his shoulder, then to Link, he whispered, "Don't want you to see where."

"Right."

He took Link out of the club, back onto the street. He fumbled uneasily on the stairs, and Larry muttered an apology each time he did. They walked for a while, turned right, then left, and right again, heading somewhere unknown. He was loaded into the back of a car, and Larry told him to keep his head down, which he did. They drove for thirty minutes, and he gave up trying to determine where they were in relation to where they had started.

Lights passed, Link saw the glow through the weave of the fabric, but not a lot else, a few other cars honked. Someone drove by with a blaring radio. It was too early for that. It got darker—the lights fewer. Larry slowed down. The sound of the road changed, roaring and smooth to crumpling and rough—they were on unpaved gravel. He did not know there were places like that in New Hyrule.

The car stopped, he heard the sounds of the locks buzzing shut. Larry huffed in frustration, and he opened them again. He climbed out of the car, and half-tugged Link out as well. He walked him through a gate, up some narrow wooden steps and on to a small, carpeted front porch that sagged and protested under their combined weight. He heard music again—much softer this time, much less bass and slower. Larry knocked on the door, and it opened almost at once.

They went inside, across a creaking floor, and he was set down on a metal folding chair. The bag was removed from his head—but it did not make much difference. It was dark—the room was small, it was a trailer, Link realized. There was a light on in the bedroom at the end of the hall, past the washer and dryer, someone moved around in the back—he saw a shadow pass over the bedroom wall. Colored light changed on the wall in front of him, and on the figure of a Moblin on the couch. The TV was playing an old film—he heard the hum of a VCR and knew it was from before Ganondorf's day. He did not know the film's title, but the grand, sweeping music meant it was probably one of the Zelda films—they had made so many of the things before Ganondorf came to power, fully gained the Trifroce and crushed Link and Zelda for all time.

They lost their appeal after that—and he cracked down on censorship—so... yeah. The music swelled, and then abruptly stopped. Link focused on the short, heavy Moblin on the beat-up couch before him. He had no shoes on, and a wife-beater that was yellowed and stained around the neck. He was listening intently to what Larry was whispering into his ear, the remote in one hand, a hand-rolled cigarette in the other. It did not smell like any tobacco Link knew. Suddenly, he laughed, big and hearty. He slapped his knee, kicking up a bit, and Link caught a glimpse of heart-covered boxers. He did not think people actually wore those—or that they were even made. Larry finished his story and stepped away, he vanished out of the corner of Link's eye, but he heard him moving around past his shoulder in the dim light.

When he was done laughing, he raised a small glass of a dark drink to his lips. Link saw the reflection of the TV in the bottom, though it was blurry and distorted. The Hero of Time was just an inch away from the kiss of his life.

The Moblin tapped his chest and muttered, "Excuse me." before addressing Link, "It's such a shame—what happened to your sister."

"I think she's alive, but—" he should have not left so early. She could be dead right now—They would still need the money, though. Not just for treatment, but her funeral, if she was dead. He did not finish that thought—he could not stand to.

He took in a completely different direction for him, "There is a difference between what you're willing to pay and what you can pay."

"Yes."

The Moblin boss nodded solemnly, "I guess you know, Link, we've wanted to welcome you into the fold for a while."

"Can't imagine why."

He chuckled. "Well, I figure you've got just as good a chance as all of the other Links."

Link frowned—he had no idea where he was, though, and his hands were bound by a painful, biting zip-tie, so he did not mutter the curse he was thinking. He still thought it though.

He took another swig of his drink, "If the Hero of Time rolls in—I'd like the world to know he's one of mine and I've go his back."

Link was no legendary hero, and he was pretty sure they both knew that, too—but allies would never hurt. He looked away from the Moblin boss and back to the bedroom. The lights were off—they had moved into the bathroom now, the water was running. He could go for a shower. Also some sleep. And some food. He looked back to the Moblin boss, he was looking at him intently, with dark, clear eyes.

"So—what do you want?"

"I'll work for you—you give me money to pay for Aryll's treatment. When I'm done, I walk away, and our business never happened."

He frowned, scratched the thin little patch of hair on his chin. He did not like that arrangement. He would push for a tie for life. Link would avoid it—but he had to remember, he had to have the money for Aryll, and once his feet were wet they would never be dry again, so to speak. That was not something he could forget. Joining a rival gang would be stupid when he lived on Moblin turf. He was not dumb.

"Okay." he said when he put the drink down, "Okay. As long as you need the money—you'll have work here. When your debt's paid, you can walk away—but if you turn us in, you're going to be paying to bury her—and you'll be doing it with no hands."

Link leaned back.

No further explanation was really _needed_ beyond that statement, but he went on anyway, "Because I'll smash that left hand of yours right open and see if Ganondorf really does have that Triforce of Courage. And _Marin—_"

"If you hurt either on of them—!" Link stared to shout, his voice cracked, "Neither one of them needs to know about this. Marin and Aryll are not your collateral _I_ am."

He wanted to anger him: "We'd get more money—"

Link burned: "You shut the hell up."

He shut the hell up, dropped the thought completely, "You know what will happen if you get caught."

"Yes."

"It was before your time." He got a far off look in his eye. "Little kid, not more than ten years old, got caught too close to the palace." He paused, took a drink, and ruined the moment with a delicate belch, "Killed on sight for the heinous crime of being named Link."

Link got a bitter taste in his mouth. The Moblin leaned forward, a serious expression on his face—and link noticed the strangest thing. His teeth were _perfect_. He had expected him to have foul breath and blackened teeth—but aside from a hint of rum he was the picture of oral health. He was confused. Intrigued. The pearly whites flashed in the cool light of the TV. He reminded him, "And that could be you."

Link thought he was going to bring the conversation back to Aryll and Marin. He did not. He leaned back abruptly again, all the menace gone. He said casually, almost dismissively, "We'll teach you what we can—because no one's stupid enough to go with you. It's noting personal, but no one wants to die because they stood next to a guy named Link."

"I understand—I would not expect them too."

"There's just..." he grinned, "_One_ thing."

Link's stomach dropped, "What?"

"We're not cutting you out of that zip-tie."

"What?!" his head snapped to Larry, who froze, sheepishly in front of the refrigerator. Link glared at him, head twisted at an uncomfortable angle, mouth in a frown. Larry had a flipping _sandwich. _He was tied up, starving, and plunging head first in a life of crime and that asshole had a sandwich. Right in front of him.

Sure it was a beef sandwich, but _still._

"Don't worry." he answered, "It's easy. I can walk you through it. Slip your hands up front, you know how to do that, right?"

Still glaring at him, Link stood up and slipped his legs through the loop made by his arms.

"Now—" he took a bite of his sandwich, "Now move the ring things are in the space between your wrists."

That was a longer process, he had to use his teeth for it. Next he was instructed to use his teeth to pull the plastic bands beyond the point that he could stand it, the point where his fingers tingled and turned an angry red—then he had him slam it all down, hands, wrists, and zip-ties, onto his hip bones to break himself free. He had to use so much force it hurt and the impact bit into his skin, but the plastic snapped.

He was sure there was some kind of deep, symbolic meaning to it. His soul, the dies to his old life, liberation form law-abiding. Something. A little bit of blood came from the back of his left hand, the color rushed from his fingers and a pins-and-needles feeling flooded in. He rubbed his wrists, with small circles on the backs.

"You look half starved."

"Haven't eaten in a while." Link replied.

"Oh!" Larry got the bread out again.

"No!" Link said quickly. They looked at him strangely, "Not beef."

"Okay."

So Larry made him a chicken sandwich with out any question. That was not much help—not really. Rye bread, though—that did help. It was dark and fibrous. The best he had ever tasted, even if the gravity of the choice he had just made was turning his stomach into obstinate knots and constricting his throat, making it impossible to swallow.

"You sure you don't want rum in that?"

"I'm sure." Link said before taking a swig of dark cola. He considered it, though—what was a little under-aged drinking? What was it compared to everything _else_? Nothing. It was nothing. He held the glass over the counter and did not bother saying he had never had alcohol before. He grimaced at the off taste, and did not bother saying he would never have it again.

It loosened his throat, though, which let him scarf down the sandwich faster. It gave him a little time to think. As long as he _was_ doing illegal things, he should find out who did this to Aryll, and break his legs. How would he go around investigating that, though? If it was not Ganondorf's doing, which was unlikely, really—he was a dictator, not a mass murderer—then the culprit would be found swiftly and dispatched. But if it was—what if it was?—then it would be kept quiet. And if it was? That would mean he would find the answers at the source—Hyrule Public Water Commission.

It would take a while for him to be able to break into _there_.

He finished off his meal, and expected something more to be said, but the Moblin Boss had gone back to his film—Link had defeated Ganondorf for all time. He was not bound, blinded, quartered, or shot this time. He followed Larry into a poorly-lit trailer park. Somewhere, a dog barked. They climbed into the car, Link riding shotgun, and they went back to the hospital. They did not say much—just that he would sometimes get messages from either Larry himself or a Ruto mailman that occasionally went into his neighborhood and knew the importance of discretion. Usually those would be summons to head to the Dentist's office by the club, which was more of an exclusive lounge, because that was the boss' day job.

"Explains the perfect teeth."

"Yeah." Larry nodded.

He let him off by the front desk of the hospital, which was closer to the maternity ward and ICU than the emergency room. The maternity ward's doors swung open, and Link caught a glimpse of a sign on the inside of the door. A poster that read _Ganondorf would like to remind you that there are plenty of names other than Link,_ and there was a supposed list of names other than "Link." Link went on to the front desk, where he asked about his sister, and then he asked about the bill.

The nurse told him it would be impossible to tell right now—they would get a bill when she was released—and she was in room 321. Link was not satisfied with that answer, but he did not say a word about it. He went to Aryll's room, entered as quietly as he could. The lights were off, no one said a word, but of course not it was four in the morning now, possibly later. What was tomorrow? No—what was today? Nayrusday. He did not have work until eight—and it was close. A fifteen minute walk. He should get some sleep. He moved a chair slightly.

Marin's head snapped up, she said, a little relieved, a little angry, "Link."

"Hey." he offered timidly.

"Where were you?"

He did not answer fully. She saw he was hiding something. Her dark eyes narrowed and her full lips thinned into a pursed, frustrated pout. She demanded, "What?"

"Something."

He sat down beside her and changed the subject, "What did they say?"

"She'll be here for two weeks—and we'll have to pay for it." she leaned forward and lowered her voice even more, "How are we going to pay for it?"

He looked at Aryll on the bed and did not say a word. He could have told exactly what he did, but he did not want her to know. She would be mad at him—he hated it when she was made at him. He hated it when anyone was mad but Marin was the worst, and Aryll did not count, because she never got mad at him, or anyone, but if she did get mad he would hate that, too.

"Link?"

He shrugged, "I'm sorry—I don't know."

"You've been drinking." It was not a question.

"Yes."

There was no point in lying about that. She knew what alcohol smelled like. She had gotten used to it on her father's breath, when he came around, trying to shame her and shake her down for cash. It rarely worked. Sometimes she kicked him out, because she was twenty and legally free of him—other times it was Link because he was around and even though she was three years older, he was still physically stronger. She threw off the blanket and said, "I didn't know you drank."

"I don't—I was just drinking."

"How are we going to pay for this?"

Link was too tired and too buzzed to try to mask the truth. He leaned against her shoulder and tucked his feet under him, muttering, "I took care of it."

* * *

A. Smoking kills.

B. Always drink legally and responsibly.

C. Yes SHUT UP I know they're Cucoos but "Cucoo Sandwich" just sounded WEIRD okay? And it_ completely ruined the mood_—So lets just say its like cow-beef/pig-ham/deer-venison animal has a different name from the meat.


	3. Chapter 3

Interlinking

(Disclaimed)

Sorry it was late—I decided to change the ending on Friday-update days will move to Fridays, too. I have a permanent engagement on Thursday nights, so it makes updating a hassle. Also-I flipping hate editing, so that might have something to do with it.

Some time this month, there may not be an update, I have final papers in all four classes.

* * *

Chapter three:

Clever Marin had brought a change of clothes.

The water was safe here, so they had said. She had gotten up early and taken a shower. When Link woke up, she was sitting in the chair she had slept in, pinning her hair back by memory, clearly not burned by the mysterious acid. She sat on the very edge of the seat, knees pressed together like a proper lady. She was wearing a pretty, faded purple dress and a good pair of shoes—nicer than the boots he had given her when he outgrew them. They were freshly polished, with half-inch kitten heels and a strap over the arch of her foot, brown and second hand, but new for her, and a little roomy, big enough for her to freely wiggle her toes. She wore nylon stockings with them to hid the fact that she had not gotten around to shaving last night, as she usually did.

She rolled her ankle with a little crack, and then she saw he was awake.

"Morning." She said, opening a hairpin with her teeth, "Brought clothes for you."

It was dark out. He asked, "What time is it?"

"Seven." she said. She was wrapping the lose strands of hair into barrel curls around her bun.

She worked in a ladies lingerie shop in a better, close, part of town on Nayrusday, Dinsday and Vitasday. She liked that job—she got a discount on everything in the store, and it gave her an excuse to wear nicer clothes—of course, some of the dresses had been her mother's, so they were a bit out of style, but Marin did not mind. She liked the old cuts, she called them timeless, classy, and she often got many complements from the older ladies that came to the shop, which made them like her—which helped her make a sale, which got her a commission. If he had any foresight, he would have brought his work uniform on his own—he worked at Ordon Grocery today—the uniform was a blue polo, and it was the only shirt he had that fit him properly. At least Marin had thought of it for him.

What was the weather going to be like today?

"Link—" she dropped her hands from her hair and folded them neatly in her lap, "Look—Don't wait for me. Just take the bus on home. I'll take a cab."

"What?"

"I'm starting another job—just tonight—in a cafe that is not far from the shop. It runs late, later than your shift, but with Aryll—" she stopped herself, "It's not because of Aryll, it's just a nice coincidence that I got it in time. Everything from that job will go to her treatment." she paused, "Well, everything that can. So don't wait."

He would just get away from the Moblins a little faster, then.

"Okay." he said, "I was going to come back here, though—take a later bus home."

"I have a long lunch break—I'm sure the manager will let me take a little while longer to go see her."

Link did not know her manager. He did not really even know the name of where she worked. He knew what it looked like, and where it was, it was just written in some overly-fancy lettering that he could not read. He would never be able to point out the manager on the street, either. He took her word for it.

He uncurled his legs and he was assaulted by a horrible pins and needles feeling from his knees downwards. He showered, and changed into the clothes Marin had brought from home. She had folded them up and put them in the cabinet. She had gotten extra tooth brushes and deodorant from the nurses station, too. He scrubbed off his boots with water and a disposable towel and wore them inside the jeans. They would rub uncomfortably for the entire day, but it would be better if no one in the store saw the unsightly stains.

He roughly shook his damp hair out, fluffing it up with his fingers, but making it no more dry. It was warm enough to go with out his hat, and it was against dress code at the store, so he left it, and his jacket, draped over the chair, with his dirty clothes wrapped up on the seat. Aryll was still asleep, and he supposed a promise of return would be better than waking her up just to leave.

They left the room together and walked down the hallway in tense silence. Marin was not going to let it die. She was going to say something about where he went. If she asked, he would be left in childish, fearful shame. There was no way he was going to say a single word about it on his own. She was watching him, and he could see her watching him as they walked down the hall an unusually slow pace; they had never had an opportunity to take their time like this, and he did not want to let her know how badly he wanted to run away. He watched his boots on the shiny tile floor, between the broken lines made be two rows of florescent white lights, and listened to Marin's heels to his right, just behind him.

"Link." she called out to him when the doors of the stairwell closed behind them. The light was harsher here, the floor not as clean, either, a line of grime, an amalgamation of dirt and gunk, edged the stairs, along the rubber coating on the ledges. The paint was peeling on the banister and there were no windows.

His stomach turned into a knot. He looked down the stairs, he looked up. They were completely alone. No one would hear them. Here it comes, "Yes?"

Her voice echoed off of the white walls, she asked, feigning casual curiosity as she took the two steps to catch up to him, "Where _did_ you go last night?"

_Choose your words carefully._ He thought to himself, "Out." he answered.

"Out _where_?" she pressed. She was not mad anymore—or, if she was, she was acting like she was not. Link did not want to dissect her tone today. She was probably mad. It was safe to assume it.

"It's not your business." he started walking again.

"Oh?" she demanded because she was twenty and he was seventeen and he had gotten alcohol underage last night, so it _was_ her business, "It's not?"

"No." he insisted. He quickened his pace on the stairs."It's not."

There was that pressing silence of hers again. She matched his new speed and kept up with him. She tried again in a gentler tone, "What did you do?"

"It doesn't matter." Link insisted.

"Link!" She reached forward and grabbed his wrist, she looked angry for a second, then she saw something written on his face, either guilt or fear or shame, he did not know which. He was pretty sure they were all there. She relaxed and her hand became less aggressive and more reassuring, "We'll be fine. I want you to know that—" she smiled, "Don't do anything stupid, and we'll be okay."

His hand tightened on the banister and his eyes slid away from hers. He had already done something stupid, and he knew it. The goal now was to not die, and never let her know. That still seemed doable. He relaxed his hand and assured himself that there was no way she could have found out. The cab driver would not have returned to the hospital just to tell her where he had dropped him off, right? He would keep it a secret.

What if he had?

Link did not want to ask. They had stopped on the landing of the first floor. Outside, he heard the occasional mumble from the front lobby beyond the door. He did not want to just callously jerk his wrist away from her—that would make her more suspicious. He waited, not meeting her eyes, until she gave up and let him go. He headed for the double doors under the exit sign. He felt bad about lying to Marin—and he knew already he had started down a long road paved with bad choices—but what made him feel even worse was the knowledge that _it was still the best choice_.

Marin gave up trying to speak to him until they exited the clear glass double doors with the words _Emergency Room, Maternity Ward, _and_ Outpatient Services, _with arrows pointing to the left, right, and left again etched into the glass. She grabbed his arm again and said, "I'll see you tonight—Do you have money for breakfast?"

"Right—Yes."

She gave him a quick, searching stare, and squeezed his arm slightly to keep him from running off just yet. He tried not to meet her eyes at first, but once he did, he knew he was caught. She knew he was hiding something. She knew where he had gone last night was important, and he figured it _was_ pretty obvious. He took his arm out of her hand and repeated, "See you tonight."

She frowned, blue eyes narrowing. She gently brushed a heavy lock of red hair back from her of her forehead—it fell right out. She became a bit more aggressive, hooking it back behind her rounded ear. "Okay."

They went separate ways, Marin to the left, curving around the side of the large hospital, Link across the parking lot, occasionally glancing back at the building. It was about four stories high and made of rosy-brown brick, white concrete, and glass. There were only about three empty spaces that did not belong to doctors, and every light had a security camera attached to them. He knew they worked. He kept his head down, crossed the strip of pavement that lead in to the parking lot, and got onto the wide sidewalk.

He wove through a crowd as he turned the corner, carpooling business folk, judging from the clothes and quick pace, heading for the office building that was about a block away. The side walks were wider in this part of town, the traffic fast and heavy. It was early still, it was good that he was constantly early. He passed by a coffee shop and remembered that he had not eaten yet—and he really should. He had time for coffee and a bagel. He went inside and saw a very bored, tired looking young man behind the glass counter, elbow on the side counter by the espresso machine, hand on his chin, covered in patchy, strawberry-blonde stubble. His eyes were firmly fixed on the screen of his laptop.

Link ordered a plain bagel with unflavored cream cheese and a black coffee.

He said, with out really thinking it, "Sheesh, that's so _boring._"

"Well it's so over-priced."

The young man looked up at nothing, then turned to Link. He gave him a once-over and laughed. It seemed genuine enough. He stepped away from his laptop just long enough to ring up his order and prepare it for him, every now and then glancing about, as if to make sure no one was sneaking a peek at his screen. When he was done and the paper rupees had changed hands, he went right back to his laptop. Link sat in the furthest corner from him, trying not to spy on what he was doing. He was intently searching for something on that computer. Eventually—when Link was about halfway done with his bagel—he cursed, slapped the counter, and yanked out the memory stick he was searching. He opened a drawer, reached for a plastic bag _filled_ with memory sticks, and tried a new one, putting the used one in a mostly-empty bag, he went back to his searching and meaningless, tetchy muttering.

Link tipped well.

He walked another block and he could see Ordon Grocery. He cut trough the parking lot and circled around the back, down the narrow alley between the building and the fence that separated it from one of Din's larger Temples. He went through the delivery door into the stockroom. The place was stacked floor to ceiling with packages of bottled water, with just a narrow gap between them from the delivery door and the main door, and another to the two back freezers. The manager paused for a second of barking orders to shout at him, "Close the door! You think I want the world to see I've got all that?" he swept his hand as grandly as he could in the narrow space. He was right. Link shut the door quickly and clocked in. "Produce." he was ordered, "Now. You need gloves—you look like shit."

"Aryll was—um, I spent the night in the hospital."

"I'm so sorry to hear that." he said. He gave him a slight tap on the shoulder, "Are you okay to work?"

"Yes." Link replied, taking the gloves that the manager offered him, they were long enough to cover up to his elbows, "Yes, she's fine. I'm okay."

He went to the produce section where other employees were bagging the entire stock by the walls—it was mostly green vegetables, the stuff that was on display and sprinkled with cold water every forty-five minutes to keep it fresh-looking and chilled. It must have been sprayed with the contaminated water—or maybe the manager just did not want to take the risk. It all had to go. The trays had to be cleaned out with water that had been prepackaged and a magnesium solution to neutralize the acid, then re-filled with what little they had left or had been shipped in earlier that morning. The sprinkler system was shut off, and the duty to manually spray them was passed to Link. He did not mind.

They threw the gloves away and tossed the old produce out into the dumpster out back. Link was pretty sure that was not the best way to dispose of it, but he did not know a better one. The point was the mistake was covered and no one else would be poisoned. Of course, the place was poorly stocked and it showed.

But no one really noticed, because no one went to the produce section—they went right for the bottles of water the manager had cleverly placed in a few stacks at the front of the store. Every now and then, when there was a pause in the crowd, employees would bring more from the back and stack it up, never letting on that they had a stockroom filled with the stuff. The manager seemed to anticipate a riot over it—one never happened.

The employees all took advantage of the extra stock and laid claim to as many cases as they could carry—unfortunately for Link, he was the only one that depended on his legs and buses to get around—he could only manage one on his own. He did not know what they would do with out water to drink. Through the day, when there was not music or gossip on the radio, he heard from the speakers that Ganondorf was making a big display of aiding the poorer communities, handing out rations of water. It was a shame no one would be at their house to claim any of it.

It did not _seem_ like he was the culprit.

If there were riots, they were hushed up quickly, and they certainly did not happen in _this_ part of town. Perhaps it was a move on Ganondorf's part to make himself look good? Perhaps he did not seem like the culprit because he was trying very hard to make it look like the case. Link sprayed the cabbages lined up along the shelf, wondering. It could not be, though. It was bold—and too stupid, for that matter. It could have backfired horribly and had gone much, much worse. The water could have ended up in the wealthier parts of town, right?

Well—it would not have been that bad, then, right? Things were better over there—medical care better and word might travel faster. He did not know. It was certainly less crowded. He thought about how packed that emergency room had been, it would have cut down on the drama and show of the situation. The more he thought about it, the more it confused him. If it was a deliberate, calculated attack by a citizen, they would have gone straight for the wealthier class, it would send a bigger message across the city, and wealthier people were more likely to be allied with Ganondorf—it had a chance of crippling his infrastructure.

An attack on the poor—who benefited? Ganondorf. Ganondorf was the one that benefited from this. Not in resources, clearly, though if it was a planned move, it would explain why he had pulled enough water out of thin air to distribute. Link frowned. No, the benefit was in appearances only. Something must be happening. Something big—and Ganondorf wanted people on his side.

He though about Aryll. To the best of his knowledge she was still confined to that bed. He had no idea how bad off she was. There had been _acid_ in that water—the lining of her stomach could have been permanently damaged. He had to get to the bottom of this. When he thought about Aryll, he thought about the water, and that made him think of the girl with the flash drive around her neck, and _that, _strangely enough, made him think of the guy in the coffee shop and his bags of flash drives.

Was he looking for that one in particular? The one she had?

What was on it?

How was Aryll doing? He supposed Marin would get word to him if she got worse... Or the unthinkable happened.

What was on that flash drive?

How had she known about the water, for that matter?

Link paused, hand frozen on the spray bottle and he thought about it. How _had_ she known? Had she been involved? Maybe it was not Ganondorf then—but _who_? Her? No. Link did not want to believe that. She was seventeen, hardly the type to preform an act of terrorism—which is what this was, deliberate, blatant, terrorism. She had a connection, obviously, but he did not think she was the culprit.

"You know, dear, I think all of your wacky cravings have turned out delicious."

Link turned and saw the only two people he had seen in this part of the store the entire day. They seemed to have no idea about the nearing water shortage and not a care in the world, aside from the fact that they were in love, and she was six or seven months pregnant and the weather was lovely today. Link watched the man lean on the cart while she picked through the apples for the best ones—a difficult task, considering what little there was. He pushed it back and forth with his foot.

"Oh, _you_." She smiled broadly and turned to him, wrinkling her narrow little nose up. She set the plastic bag of apples in the cart and yanked his red hunters cap down over his eyes. After they left, no one came. Link worked until about six thirty, past dark. He clocked out and went back to the hospital, got there around seven it took a lot longer because he was bringing the heavy package of water with him, the last bus left the nearest station at nine—he had plenty of time to talk with Aryll.

People went this way or the other way, but they did not move so fast as the occasional nurse. He went to the stairwell, and on the stairs he passed a kid about Aryll's age, with tufts of dark brown hair sticking out from a blue newsboy cap, on the stairway. They did not look at each other, or say a word. The bright blue shirt caught his eye. Not that there was anything of interest on it, even—just an eye catching color. He hurried on, unwilling to meet Link's gaze. He raised a hand to his backpack's strap defensively. Aware of him, deliberately ignoring him. Link did not say a word about it.

Aryll was up, drinking what looked like watered-down, orange colored milk, that obviously did not taste particularly nice. She held the half-empty glass at arms length when she grimaced with a distinct, "Yeach." Link chucked to himself—he was just glad to see her awake. When she saw him, her face lit up brightly, "Big Brother!"

"How are you feeling?"

"Oh, awful." she said plainly, "Everything still hurts—but they've put me on morphine so I don't really feel it. I have to drink this stuff, too—it does..." she paused, she shook her head and turned her round face to him, "Well, its _supposed _to be good for me."

"It's got everything she needs." the nurse beside the bed explained, "Drink up."

Aryll mouthed the words, _It's awful _but she downed it anyway. The nurse threw away the disposable plastic cup and left them in silence, her comfortable, polished sneakers squeaking on the floor. Link asked, "Did Marin come by today?"

She slinked down under the covers, bending her knees, "Yeah." she nodded, "Brought me lunch—but they wouldn't let me eat it. I'm going to be on a liquid diet for a month, they said."

"Really?"

"Yeah—no stomach lining, damaged intestines—" she waved her hand dismissively, "Oh by the goddess' blood, the _pain_."

"I'm so sorry, Aryll."

"You didn't poison me."

"Someone will find out who did it." he said. He took her hand and held it between both of his, "If no one else does, I will."

"Really, big brother?" she grinned. She was clearly in a drug-induced high. Link pushed thoughts of the cost from his mind and smiled back.

"Really."

There was a pause, Aryll looked to her knees, then to the wall, then back to Link, "Is that where you went last night?"

"What?"

"Yeah—I woke up for about half an hour—I was a little groggy, you know, they knock you out pretty heavily when they pump your stomach—and I asked for you, but Marin said you had left. You never told her where you went. Where did you go?"

"W-well..."

Darn it. Marin had him cornered again and she was not even in the room.

"I won't tell her." Aryll promised. She beamed, sensing a juicy secret in the room. She scooted up again, "I promise I won't tell her! Where did you go?"

"Just—" the lie he thought of was so weak it was laughable. "I just went for a walk."

She was disappointed. She huffed, her tongue clicking as she snapped it down from the roof of her mouth. But, she seemed to buy it. She dragged her eyes across the room, swaying her head, "Is that _it_?" she wrinkled her nose again, "That's _all_?"

"Yes."

"Well why didn't you just tell _Marin_ that?" she tilted her head, looking back at him, "Come _on_, bro, you really dropped the ball there—making her stress out like that."

"Well, you know how Marin is—how much she cares. When she's worried, she can't help but work herself up. She would never have believed something that simple anyway. She always worries—sometimes though, its not over nothing. She doesn't tend to worry over nothing."

"No, she doesn't. You're right." Aryll nodded in agreement, "And you can't sit still when you're stressed out—so I guess if she hears it from _me,_ she'll believe it."

Link wanted to change the subject. He looked around—there wasn't much too talk about, except for the muted television. They had not watched it in years—they went to the cinema when the had the time and money, when an interesting title was playing on Hyliasday or late Vitasday. "Seen anything good?"

"No." she shook her head, "Been watching the news, though."

"What do they say?"

"This and that—one channel said it was in industrial accident in the morning, but then they said it was an act of terrorism around lunch time—then they got cut off for a little while, ran a lot of commercials, and came back saying it was an industrial accident and focused a lot on what Ganondorf was doing to help. They've got it under control, now—they say the water will be safe to drink by next Gildenday."

Link looked at the case of water by the chair he was sitting in—it would not last that long.

"Don't you think that's odd?"

"What?"

"Changing the story?" she prodded, "Don't you think it's odd?"

"Oh. Yes." Link looked back to her, "Very odd."

Considering the section of town that was more industry-focused was no where near where they lived, or Aryll's school; or even the public water treatment plant, yes, it was very odd. Must have been a pretty big accident. Link slumped back in the chair, crossed his arms, and thought deeply about it—but really, it did not shed any new light on the situation. It still only served to make Ganondorf look good—though perhaps insisting that it was an accident when it was clearly not served to keep people from panicking, and that could help him root out the culprits—unless Ganondorf himself had done it. Which was likely.

"What are you thinking about?"

"N-nothing." he straightened up again, "You want me to bring anything from home for you when I come back tomorrow?"

"My backpack." She gestured to a short stack of papers on her nightstand, "I'm supposed to do that before I go back to school. Don't have a pencil. Or my books. If you could drag that up here, it'd be nice."

* * *

Can't edit, too boring. Link move faster, GOSH!

Least he finds the sword next chapter but STILL.


	4. Chapter 4

Interlinking

(Disclaimed)

Oh what a strangely appropriate fanfic to start around Easter—actually. Fancy that.

It wasn't deliberate.

I forgot Easter was a thing.

Happy Easter, tho.

* * *

Chapter four:

Beetle's shop operated out of a grey van. The engine ratted and the exhaust smelled like the gasoline did not burn all the way—but the two had been though a lot together so he kept her. Her name was Bessie—apparently. Beetle was a skinny fellow with a long face and a bulbous nose which had a long smear of grease running from the side, over his cheek, and under his left eye. He would drive the van—_Bessie, _he was adamant about it—all around the city, with his goods in the back, sometimes he lugged larger things around on a trailer, but always on commission and never for free. Link and Larry sat on his trailer, watching the sun set behind a pile of old, rusted cars. There was a sudden bump, Beetle swore, and slapped the side of the car roughly, by the battery. They heard him heave a sigh, the small, hissing kind between pursed lips.

He walked past them, a greasy hand to the crown of his head. He took it out of his hair and examined it. No blood. He washed his hands off with heavy-duty hand cleaner, the kind for getting old engine oil off of hands that used as little water as possible. He shook his hands off, then wiped them off on a towel, going all the way up his skinny, sun-kissed forearms. They were sprinkled with freckles like raindrops on a window, and little scars clung on like leaves on the glass. Some were old, some were fresher. He had a bright red nick, half the size of a fingernail halfway up his left forearm that began bleeding anew when he rubbed it with the towel. He was missing some skin on two knuckles where he had sheered it off working on the car recently. He chugged the rest of the water bottle down.

"Going well?" Larry asked.

"Oooh, well as it can." Beetle answered.

"What's the trouble?"

"Eeeeh." he replied with a shrug and did not say what. Instead he muttered, "Dinner." He went into his little mobile home. It was capable of latching onto the back of his van, should he ever have to relocate again. It was not likely to happen. Beetle had truly found his niche when he gotten the scrapyard. Link had no idea how he had managed it, perhaps he had won it in a card came, or some other wager—perhaps it had been a payment or a trade, though Link had no idea what Beetle had possessed of equal value—perhaps fifteen acres or something more useful, like farmland.

He certainly was not unhappy here. Beetle, of course, was not the only one that would live in the scrapyard—and he was certainly not the first. It was not difficult to find little lean-tos and shanties dotted around, just sitting there, Link could see three—but it was just Beetle right now, living here. He used it as a holding spot for his bigger deliveries—when he had a length of time between obtaining the order and handing it off. Sometimes, what he sold was not completely legal, but Beetle was a fellow that could get anything for you—if you paid him enough. He was far from unscrupulous, fortunately—he would never buy or sell anything with a heartbeat. Faries, rare animals, and humans were things he never trafficked around. Stolen goods and family heirlooms were fair game, though, and he had stories. He would sit down and tell them on slow days to anyone who cared to ask—though Link did not like to hear them, because they sometimes ended with items that had been used by the Hero of Time being dropped right into the hands of Ganondorf. Beetle, occasionally, worked hand in hand with the King of Evil, and yes, Link hated that. Perhaps that was even how he obtained the scrapyard-but Link forgave him, because he was not evil, and he would do very good things.

Just the other day he had gotten home after worrying about what they would do about the water they needed—and it was already there. Courtesy of Beetle.

Larry had to ask him, of course, but the fact that he did it still counted for something.

He was getting close to seventy now, Beetle was—but you would never think it to look at him. There was only a little salt in his peppery hair, and he had been afflicted with no palsy, arthritis, or dementia—the only signs of age were the looseness of his skin and the saw blade-like protrusion of his spine when he stooped over. He did not look older than fifty. He had owned this scrapyard for a full thirty years and it was the one story he refused to tell. It was a great place for him. Sure it smelled like gasoline and engine oil, and that made Link a little dizzy, but it was one of the few places in town were the surveillance did not work which was why it had been so popular with the Moblins and other derelicts.

And, with its its abandoned cars, open spaces, and abundance of scrap metal, it was a perfect training ground and makeshift workshop. Link reached between him and Larry and picked up the metal lockout tool, a thin strip of metal used for forcing open car locks. He would get better at opening car windows with out tripping the alarm, certainly with a spot like this to practice in. They were unlikely to be bothered by the secret police, and the standard police force would never bother snooping around. They knew what lurked around here.

Today did not feel like spring—it felt like the middle of summer, burning hot. It was Hyliasday, the day almost everyone took off. He had visited Aryll in the morning with Marin, but he had opted out of the grocery shopping and headed here to meet with Larry, like he had been ordered too. The heat was not really anything abnormal, it was two in the afternoon, with no clouds in the sky and a high humidity—it was very warm. The occasional breeze came through the valleys of the scrapyard, bringing with it the smell of old oil and metal, but also a cool puff of air that ruffled his damp hair. When a breeze came by he ruffled it up, to try to get a little of the cooling wind on his scalp. It did not really wok as well as he would like. He took a sip of water—he was trying to conserve it.

Larry gave his shoulder a light bop, "You ready to go again?"

Link looked towards a sheltered structure made of hastily welded scrap metal. It was about eight feet high, ten by ten feet for floor space—though floor was loosely applied here. It was no visible from the main entrance. There was no floor, and only three walls made of small-holed lattice and metal struts. It was tightly riveted and welded to a roof of patch-worked metal pieces. Two slits were cut into the metal, and from those two slits hung a stack of five old tires that were lashed together and suspended by a basic barrel hitch. Link looked at his hand. His first two knuckles still bore the imprint of the treads.

Larry had filled the hot afternoon with little tidbits of advice, like n_ever throw a punch with you dominant hand, you'll probably just break your fingers._ And _don't aim for the cheek or jaw—you'll definitely break your fingers. _And _good rule of thumb is "avoid breaking your other fingers." _And_ never underestimate the power of a good knuckle duster. _Things like that. _Don't fight with principle obviously no one else will. Power comes from the hips—low center of gravity, means a bigger impact, so shortness works for you. Don't assume a girl can't fight—but don't go out of your way to give her a reason too, because no one wants to be the weakling that gets beat up by a girl-and no one wants to be the asshole that beats up one._ And; n_ever throw the first punch—and always dodge the first hit._

It was sound advice, all of it. Link would try very hard to remember it all when he was getting his teeth knocked out. He really would.

"No." he shook his head. He got to his feet and stretched. A perfect breeze kicked up and ran along his back. He rolled his shoulders out and let his arms swing at his sides. "I'm going for a walk."

"Okay."

Link walked away from him and looked around. He felt off. Like the the scrapyard was some scene he was viewing from outside of his own body. He walked through the piles of scrap metal, rubber tires, boarded-up and hopefully empty refrigerators. He felt like there was something to be found around here somewhere—but he had no idea what. He walked around for a bit, and when he saw an old tan car suspended by its front axle on a rusty crane, he felt a strange rush of nostalgia. He stood still and tilted his head, looking up at it as it swung just a tiny bit. It was only six inches or so above the ground. There was something _there._ He just felt it, even though he saw no evidence for it, it was simply in front of a huge mountain of old cars and emptied out electric stoves and refrigerators—bits of cinder blocks and bricks, some still in neat rows with mortar still between them. There was no way there was anything hidden under it. It was a horribly impractical hiding place, suppose someone moved the car? Though, he doubted they would. The chain was rusted solid, probably rusted to the axle, too. His eyes followed the chain upwards, the crane itself was rusted, too, it would be a lot of effort to clean it just to move a car, and for what? Spare parts? There were plenty of parts laying around, and scrap, too, he supposed, anything else would be easier to pick off. Perhaps it was a good hiding spot. He paced from left to right along the side of it and around the edges. It was too heavy for him to lift. He got down on his hands and knees and looked under it with his ear to the ground. He expected to see more junk, but there was none. There was darkness beyond, like an entry way.

He got up again, dusted himself off, and climbed the pile of junk to get to the control box for the crane. It was barely possible for him to get in, the window was open, covered by an electric range that had been emptied of its heating elements. He pushed it aside a few inches and dropped through the widow into the seat. It looked about fifty years old inside, possibly more. Not a lot of dust inside, but a few little skulltula webs, some of them had died of starvation. On a wild guess, he reached for one lever and pulled it. Below his feet there was a sudden thunk and the front of the car swung upwards, until it was teetering dangerously on only its back wheels.

"Oh." He climbed out again, pushed the range back for good measure, and half-slid down the mountain of scrap metal. He went back to the rusted car and looked down the passage way. It was just big enough for him to shimmy through, and dug out slightly so he could stand up straight, while still allowing it to be hidden by the car. Curious, he climbed down. It was almost completely dark inside, and it smelled much different from the rest of the scrapyard. No engine oil, antifreeze, gasoline, or Freon. This smelled like chemicals Link could not name. He placed his hand on the wall—it was the same metal grating the little boxing gym had been made out of, and well enforced to keep it from buckling and collapsing under the weight off all of the scrap metal on top of it. He wondered if there was something inside that would allow him to hide the door again. He felt along the walls until he found a little open cubbyhole, where there was a weight that had been displaced by he lever he had pulled. It was also too heavy for him to lift, but he found another lever that cranked it back upwards slowly, hiding him again and cutting off the light. Link followed the passageway about three yards or so, until the little light from the outside had begun to fade away, but by that time he was able to see a narrow beam of light coming from the ceiling of the dug out. He stopped directly below it and looked up. There was a hole above his head, a narrow shaft that went all the way up to the top of the pile of metal waste, it channeled hot air up and allowed light to come down.

Casually kicked to the side was a shiny metal bowl that was turned upside down. He nudged it back under the light, so that it reflected the light and illuminated the entire hideout. He looked around and voiced a very important question, "Who _made_ this?"

They had been short, whoever they were, the ceiling was low, and Link could easily reach up and brush his fingers against it. Also, it had not been used for years_._ Everything was covered in a fine layer of dust. The place was dimly lit, dark and cool, and built entirely out of scavenged junk. The desk was missing a leg and was supported by a cinder block, the table was leaning slightly because the legs were bent out of shape, but it was mostly flat. There was an old lawn chair with peeling blue paint and a dusty upholstered cushion that had seen better days, use had flattened it out. A long, bench car-seat that had been torn out of a truck served as a couch—the metal that fitted into the car was buried in the dirt, so it was immovable. It was bound by a seat cover, and Link could see the faux leather upholstery underneath was split open and weathered down. It was covered with a thin cotton sheet and a couple of blankets, and had another upholstered cusion.

Next to it was a blue plastic cooler filled with old plastic bottles of water, flat soda and stale beer it had probably gone to vinegar by now, surely—or what ever beer became when it was left alone for too long. He could not trust anything, considering it was all sitting in and inch and a half of grimy, stagnant water. He closed it again quickly—he would have to do something with it when he cleaned the place up, and he would clean it up, he thought to himself. No one had come by in quite a while—why not make it his own? He already felt quite attached to it. He fully sympathized with the cork board across from him that was littered with black and white photographs of Ganondorf, his affiliates, and old, dusty darts.

Link's eyes fell back on the desk and he recognized the set up—it was for developing pictographs. The entire place doubled as a dark room. Link looked up at the ceiling by the tunnel of light. There was a dusty red lens waiting to be swiveled in front of it. Link moved it and the dugout was filled with red light. He moved it back again. There was a stack of pictographs on the desk, next to the pictobox that had taken them—it was about thirty years old. The pictographs were fanned out slightly, as if they were hastily dropped, and like the hand that set them down had intended to come back. Link picked them up and held them to the light. They were just of people, no one Link recognized, certainly, but he knew the place, it was the middle of town, around Ganondorf's stronghold, actually. It was in the center of everything, surrounded by nice restaurants and museums. He was already well hidden behind a high cement wall, so he feared nothing. Features in the back ground were circled in red marker. When Link recognized similar features in each one, he started to lay them all out, moving from the desk to the floor when he realized he would need more room, fitting them images together until they formed a choppy panorama of the fortress, cleverly disguised as casual pictures.

Well—all except for the ones that were just of a cute camera shy blonde—they really were just casual pictures.

This was not just a darkroom—it was not just a little retreat. It was a secret base.

Link got to his feet and he began to notice more details-the radio on the desk was tuned to a station. He did not know the station that used the wave signal it was tuned to—next to it was a police radio scanner and a notepad—all of the previous pages had been torn out, leaving only little scraps. A grocery list had been written on one—Link doubted the previous tenant had ever gone. A map of the city was spread out on the table and areas were circled swiftly in red-three of them were crossed out, each red 'X' had been marked with more anger and feeling than the last. Over it there was a cork board leaning against the wall, covered with more old pictographs—whoever had been here, they were doing _something_ important. Link guessed the one on Ganondorf's strong hold had gone poorly. He looked down at the map more closely. It was the only spot on the map that was not crossed out. He could hardly believe it, though. He looked across to the desk used for developing the pictures and carefully made his way back, edging around the still laid out panorama on the dirt floor. He had yellowed paper folders of pictographs squirreled away in the drawers, neatly sorted and closed with strings. He had taken pictographs of many places that were important to Ganondorf. Dig sites, construction projects, things like that.

There was even a folder dedicated to the lovely, camera-shy blonde. Many of the photographs had been taken at her complete surprise, others with out her knowledge, but nothing dishonorable. Sure, the other ones were interesting, but Link liked these more—she was pretty. He wondered why there was not a single picture of the person who had owned the camera and had obviously hung their hat and kicked off their shoes here so many times before. It seemed incomplete with out one. He looked back to the pictures of the girl he had left on the floor when he was assembling the puzzle panorama. He knelt down and slipped them inside the file with the rest of her pictures. He turned the file over, dusting it off and wondering why the other person had never labeled a single one. Probably because he-or, possibly _she_, in all fairness-already knew the girl's name. Just because Link wanted to know it did not give him any right to that information.

While he was on the dirt floor again, he saw a gleam—it came from a little space under the car seat. Link looked under, and then risked reaching inside. His hand found something cool to the touch, slim, and bound in smooth leather and paracord.

Usually you found skin mags hidden under strange couches.

Odd.

He closed his fingers around it and carefully worked it out. It was boomerang cut from scrap metal, painted white, and varnished to make it last, and bound in leather at the joint. He tested the weight in his hand—it was heavy. Heavy enough to hurt someone. The leather was meant to provide grip against the rope that was wrapped around it, so it could double as a grappling hook. He looked back at the couch. There was more back there. He just knew it. He jerked the blankets off and saw a little lever—the kind meant to bend the whole thing over. He pushed it down and the seat folded easily—and there were the weapons, dusty, but there. He reached for the bow first—it was made of thin metal rods and pulleys, covered in rust-resistant black paint. The arrows were solid aluminum, too, the 'feathers' in the fletchings were plastic and meant to last, the tips were steel. Link drew tested the bow string, it pulled back easy, but had a great deal of tension and potential energy stored up—it was nice, but everyone else was using guns, the bow was kind of useless—he doubted he would ever be able to throw the boomerang, too. There was also a makeshift melee hammer made of old pipes and filled with sand to make it heavier in the hand, and like the bow, it was covered in rust-resistant paint—that he could use.

And last of all, there was a sword made of steel pipe.

He stared at it for a little more and was not sure what he was feeling at the moment. He set the hammer down and picked it up.

It was slightly shorter than his leg, the blade going from hip to ankle and the hilt extending and ending just below his ribs. The hilt was bound in a layer of leather, then a layer of blue para cord to make the grip a little more comfortable, and it, too, was filled with sand to add weight. Link curled his fingers around it and lifted it from its hiding place. The tip ended with a rounded stopper that had been filed down into a point. It could stab, Link knew by testing the weight that it would break bones. If he dropped the pommel on someone's knee, it was sure to break it, and a hard enough hit could shatter ribs, and if the opponent was unarmed or holding just a knife, it would have a definite advantage.

It had not rusted, it was made to last. The leather was still good, but the para-cord around the hilt needed to be replaced. Link ran his fingers over the hand guards, which were made with wide-angle fittings, painted blue, echoing the Master Sword of Legend, and thought to himself how well it seemed to fit into his hand.

He lightly touched the sharpened tip of the sword with the middle finger of his right hand, no blood was drawn, but that did not mean drawing it would be impossible. Still—it somehow felt like a cheap imitation of and old friend, and not the genuine article—it was clearly no Master Sword, just meant to look like one. It would be too difficult to carry around the city, considering the weight, and how much it would stand out—carrying something like this would be illegal; so the charges in question would be disturbing the peace, conspiracy against Ganondorf, and possession Hero of Time paraphernalia (yes—that is a real crime) and _being named Link._

This must be some kind of inside joke.

He sighed with a little smile, "His name was _Link _wasn't it?" he asked the sword, then his smile fell and he frowned, and a sense of reverence washed over him—it wasn't _the_ Link, was it? The Hero of Time himself? He had stood here just—how many years ago? Fifty? Sixty? Possibly longer—but suddenly it felt like it had just been the blink of an eye. His hands tightened on the sword, one hand on the hilt, the other on the dull blade. This place had been here untouched for that entire time—was he really the first person to find it again?

How cool was _that?!_

"Well—_shit_." Link dusted off his knees and shins, "Going to be—what? Another fifty years until he comes back?" he asked no one, never considering that he had found this place for an entirely different reason, because he was the Hero of Time, and part of him had known it was here—part of him knew this scrapyard like the back of hand because in a past life it had been his.

This Link—the present Link—did not care about that. He put the arsenal where it belonged, blew off the lens of the pictobox and cleaned it with his sleeve. He looped the old macrame strap around his neck, and wondered if there was still film inside—and how to develop pictographs. A wave of thrill ran up his spine and down his fingers as he turned it over in his hands, and, on sheer whim, he took out the replica of the master sword to show Larry and Beetle—because, come on, it was _awesome_.

He dropped the weight down again to raise the car again and left the hideout. He set the sword and pictobox down, crawled back into the crane's control box and dropped the car down again. He went back to Larry and Beetle, they were both sitting on the wooden trailer, sharing a six pack of canned beer.

Beetle was slouched over so far that his head was level with Larry's—whom was so short and squat it did not make a lick of sense—and it looked hilarious. Link giggled to himself as he walked forward, and decided it would be a great time to start a his own collection of pictures—and the pictobox needed to be tested, anyway, it was a full twenty or more years old, after all, it might not work. He stabbed the pipe sword into the ground and raised the pictobox to his eye and captured the image forever—or at least until he could set it free again in the darkroom. With the the bright flash of light the two jumped and blinked. Link watched them through the eyepiece of the box as they tried to find where that light had come from. Eventually, they noticed him standing there with the pictobox still held to his face. Larry was confused at first, and Beetle was intrigued—and it bordered almost on offense.

He gaped at Link, his eyes going from the lamp on the pictobox to the sword he had embedded in the dirt. He opened his mouth slowly and closed it again, thinking deeply, eyes hazed over. Larry was biting back a grin and stifling a deep giggle. Link let the box drop to his chest and lifted the sword up. He continued to walk towards them, the pictobox bouncing against his diaphragm. Larry swallowed his grin, brushed off his big legs and asked, "Where'd you find that old thing?"

"Over there." Link pointed, "There's a hidden place, somebody's old hide out."

"And _that?_" He pointed to the mock sword.

"Well—yeah." Link swung it up and traced his eyes affectionately over the 'blade' "Metal's still good. Figured I'd keep it safe."

"Your Dumpster Sword?"

It might have been meant as a lighthearted insult, but Link took it in stride, "Yes." he replied, almost proud of himself, "The Dumpster Sword."

"This isn't a _dump_." Beetle exclaimed defensively. He stood up and stalked off. Link and Larry watched him as he took a few steps then stopped, turned around, and came back. He snatched the the beer away with him. Larry was bubbling with laughter.

"No—No Beetle, come back. Beetle, don't leave."

Beetle slammed the door of his trailer after giving Larry a rude gesture before he went. Larry took a moment to chill out and stop laughing—Link had no idea why he was giggling so much. There was no way it could be considered as funny as all that, or why Beetle had been made so upset by it. Perhaps it was the beer. Link looked that the four empty cans by Larry—it was probably the beer. He rubbed his chin and asked, "Where was it?"

Link was going to say—he had every intention of telling Larry and Beetle at first, but before he could say, the desire to share it was replaced by a need to keep it safe from every one else. It was _his_ hideout. The Hero of Time's. Link had found it for a reason, and he figured that reason was just to make sure it still existed when he came back into the world. He smiled, shrugged his shoulders, and replied, "Not going to say. He spent a lot of time and effort to keep it hidden—I'm not going to rat him out."

"Fair enough." Larry shrugged, then said to himself, thoroughly please, "_Dumpster Sword._"

Link grinned and shook his head, "Shut up."

* * *

That pun. That pun. Right there. That is the reason this fic exists. The Dumpster Sword. I have been sitting on that word play for a year and a half waiting to use it and you will all love it an laugh.


	5. Chapter 5

Interlinking

GOLLY GEE WHOMPERS, GUYS. PLOT.

* * *

Chapter five:

His boss's code name was The Dentist. If he did not like you, he pulled your teeth, no pain killers, no nothing, one by one, until they were all gone, or you had begged for mercy. If he did like you, he would give you a discount on dental work. Link did not need dental work—he sat in the waiting room of his boss' clinic for an entirely different reason—and even if he did, he would not take it. If he was meant to have hooks in his mouth the Goddesses would have made him a fish. His knee bounced nervously as he waited. There was a news program on, noting about the water, though. It was about something else entirely. Something that Ganondorf had put an end to—not something he started, certainly.

That meant he had to get to the water treatment facilities before any evidence was wiped away, it might be too late. It might get worse. It was strange—this was like nothing he had ever heard of. Ganondorf had never done something so... _horrible_ before. Public executions, yes, strict laws, certainly, but mass poisoning? Never that. Or maybe he _had_ it had just never effected him before. He did not know what to think about it, except that it did not matter who was responsible, Aryll could have died, and if that girl had no warned him, he and Marin could have died, too.

He wanted to find her again—pay the debt. It was a freak chance—did that make it nothing, or everything? Why did he care so much? Why did he feel so compelled to find her again? He drummed his fingers on the back of his hand and bounced his knee a little faster. His heart was pounding, his ears were ringing. He had been given a lump sum of one hundred rupees from Larry after had had gotten off work today—and that meant he was to report to the Dentist for his first job. He had bigger things to focus on aside from one girl.

His eyes dragged around the room. It looked pretty normal, considering the secrets the building hid. Sure—most of the staff were Moblins, and so were most of the clients, but none of them looked like the criminal type. The Dentist was an actual dentist and it was very strange, the nurses were actual nurses and he did not know if they were criminals or not. The receptionist might have been an ex-con—but then again, it might just be that she looked like an ex-con. The paper on the walls was boring, dark green and flecks of muted yellow and grey, the carpet matched, but was no identical, and the chairs were either a warm brown leather, or grey and green upholstered, and very comfortable. Link wished that he could sink back into his armchair and relax—because that was clearly what it was meant for—but he could not even stand the _idea_ of being relaxed. He sat pin straight in his chair, his eyes darting from the television screen to the faces around him. They looked perfectly normal. A cop could walk in right now and think nothing amiss at all. There were kids and people that had just gotten off work in the office or the stores, couple of humans.

"Link Smith?"

Here goes nothing.

Slowly, he got to his feet, and he saw everyone's eyes on him. He followed the nurse back and thought to himself,_ she certainly looks like a registered nurse, does she know what her boss does on the side? Does she care? Guess not._

They handled the exchange like a regular visit. He lay down in the chair, she leaned it back clipped a sheet over his chest, and then left the room promptly. Yes, she must know. Link waited. A while later the Dentist—his boss—came in wearing a fresh pair of latex gloves and a fake smile on his face. Now that Link saw him standing and fully clothed, he looked quite normal—just a little chubby. It was amazing what well-fitted clothes and lighting could do for a person. He adjusted the cuffs of his white coat and sat down, "First day on the job."

Link was not sure what to say, so he replied, "Yes."

He sighed with smile, "Right then." he rubbed his gloved hands together, the rubber squeaked. He opened the prepackaged metal tools and spread them out on the little, swiveling table beside the chair. Link shifted uncomfortably, the plastic scraped and scratched against his neck. The Dentist snapped his medical mask up, it was big, big enough to cover those perfectly polished tusks, and put his goggles down, "Open up."

"What?"

"Got a lot of explaining to do—and you haven't been to any doctor in a while, have you?" Under the mask, he was smiling. He picked up one of the sharpened hooks.

"I'm not a fish." he said, opening his mouth as little as possible, he slid away as far as the confines of the chair would allow him.

"Now, now—you only know this will _work _if you cooperate."

He was probably right. He centered himself in the chair, closed his eyes, and opened his mouth. He grimaced at the feel of latex against his face.

"Larry tells me you found some interesting things while you two were in Beetle's scrapyard."

"Yeah." he managed to reply despite the fingers, the mirror and the metal hooks in the way.

"That's good—keep finding interesting things, Link."

"... Okay." he replied slowly.

Then the scraping began, between his teeth, along the gum line, on top of his molars, scrape... scrape... scrape. He focused on the glaring light above him—and occasionally on his reflection in his glasses. There were so many horrible things the Dentist could do to him right now, not just pull his teeth—spear one of those hooks right through his tongue. Stab a drill into his eye. He fought of a bad shake and his knuckles went white on the arm of the chair.

Scrape... Scrape... _Scrape..._

"You've got great teeth." his boss observed, "Ever had braces?"

"No."

"They're almost perfect—" he leaned back "And I see you even manage to floss every now and then."

"Yeah."

"Very nice looking for someone of your _economic_ status."

"Great." Link's voice had become as solid as a brick wall. He was not comfortable with this conversation. What did it matter? Why did it matter? Why was he prolonging this? He just wanted to know what he was supposed to do. He wiped off his hook for the umpteenth time on the disposable gauze bib that was spread over his chest, and then he delved right back in.

This time, at least, he bothered explaining something, "Tonight, the House of Senator Malladus will be empty. It's at the very end of Saria street, uptown."

Link nodded—he knew what he was talking about.

"You're looking for anything you can carry." The Dentist explained, "Go home, get some rest, wake up at about midnight. You know Larry's usual stomping ground around the Temple of Farore?"

He nodded again.

"Head there first—there will be a little motorcycle there, a Catherine with the keys stashed between the fender and the wheel. Take that—get to Malladus' place, and make sure your head's properly covered."

He knew what to do. He knew the motorcycle he was talking about, it passed hands frequently, it was a little dinged up, but it handled smoothly and it worked—and that was what mattered. It had six or more license plates, registered to different people that were not connected with the Moblin gang, that all came from motorcycles they had stolen, and sold for scrap, or cleaned up and re-sold to someone else. The numbers were defunct and reported as stolen—but it was years ago. Link had been given only one driving lesson, but it was no too difficult.

"You're looking for anything you can carry out, however I want you to pay close attention to compact disks and flash drives. Any device that can store data—grab it. Take what ever you like, but those items are the imperative."

He took the hook from Link's teeth and he said, "Okay."

"You've got _great t_eeth." The Dentist praised, he went about his work and polished his teeth up with some annoying, hissing, spinning _thing_, almost obsessively. When that was done, he picked up the hook again and went right back in again.

"Except... for _this_ one." Link's head was filled with an uncomfortable scraping sound as The Dentist dragged his metal hook along one of his lower molars, back and forth, going a little deeper and harder each time like the crevice in the crown was a lock to be picked—and eventually Link began to feel a little pain. "It's got a _hole_." he drug out the word, making it loaded, filled with meaning, "It's not decaying, but—well, it's the weakest link. I don't like weak links, Link. They bring everything down and _break_ at the worst of times, do you know what I mean?"

"Y—yes." Link said. He felt uncomfortable on a deeply psychological level—violated. He tried to focus on something else aside from the mild pain as The Dentist scraped at his tooth. He stopped, wiped the hook off, and scooted away on his rolling stool. He grabbed a bottle of aerosol fluoride and sprayed a bit of the foam on the little work table. He picked up some of it on a cotton swab and spread it around his teeth.

"Now hold that there for a minute."

"B—"

"Ah-ah-ah." The Dentist shoved a beefy, latex-covered finger against his lips. Link nearly gagged—he had been at the plant the entire day and he was _sick_ of the smell of latex. "No."

The stuff stung the corners of his mouth and tasted awful—and the bad taste filled his mouth with saliva which he desperately wanted to spit out. A minute passed slowly, and the Dentist continued to speak, "I hope you know—going over my head won't go well for anyone. Not you, and not those sisters of yours."

Link nodded.

"Good boy." He removed his hand, "Spit."

Link spit the fluoride and excess saliva out into the tiny little white sink by the chair. He washed it down the drain and reached for the little disposable cup to rinse his mouth out—but The Dentist stopped him, "Oh, no, no, no. No food or water for at least thirty minutes."

He wanted the feel and taste of fluoride out of his mouth_ now_ though. He spit again and rubbed the corners of his mouth with his sleeve, trying to get the feeling to go away. He put a little water on his sleeve, but that didn't even work. He handed him a large yellow envelope, "You'll need to take a look at these. Just head on out." he said, taking the gauze bib from around his neck and tossing it away. He stripped off his latex gloves with a snap and threw them away, too, "And I'll see you when I need you again."

Link left with out talking to the ex-con receptionist or to anyone else. He walked out, went to the nearest bus stop, and waited around. This but stop was a lot bigger than the one by Romani Beef, cleaner, too. There were fliers posted on a cork board, ads for business, people looking for roommates, things like that. Because he was bored, Link walked to them and examined the board. The radio station was looking for a new disc jockey, Linebeck's Antiques was looking to buy—and would be hosting a special auction of some extremely choice antiques.

Tucked just under than, Link caught of glimpse of the words "_Have you seen me?" _written in dark, bold typeface. He reached for it and tugged it down. The paper ripped away easily, and he was shocked by what he saw—it was her again, the girl from the bus station. There were two photographs, one clear as day, in full color. It was her most recent school picture—she wore glasses normally. Rose-colored, cat-eye frames, and her hair was tied back with a red bow. She went to a school that had _uniforms. _A private school. He looked to the second picture. It was grainy, taken from a cell phone or digital pictobox. She was shielding her eyes with her hand with a bright, laughing smile plastered across her face, shying away from the camera.

Her name was Zelda Hylsen.

Link looked over the information, five-five, blonde, seventeen, blue eyes—all of that matched up. He leaned back against the wall and read over the blurb. Her father, Gustav Hylsen, missed her very much, she had a wonderful life ahead of her and he was desperate to see her live it. He wanted her found alive and unharmed. The address was listed, so was the phone number. There was a reward, ten thousand rupees, actually. Would that pay for Aryll's treatment? How much left over would there be? Link had no idea what he would do with that much money. Did Gustav even _have_ that much? How in Hylia's name did anyone get ten thousand rupees?

Something struck him as odd—her father had last seen her two days _before_ he had seen her at the bus stop. He ran the past days over in his head, and he was positive, yes, she was last seen _before_ she had run into him. That made him extremely curious. Where had she been between last seeing her father and seeing him?

His eyes looked to the pay phone—or, rather, they were dragged there forcibly, and a voice hissed in his head, _call him. _A voice hissed in his head. A call was not much—he had a half rupee coin in his pocket, but it did not burn as much as the curiosity. He wanted to call—maybe her father knew something? But he knew calling would be foolish—Ganondorf tapped those lines, everyone knew that. Link folded up the flier and stuffed it in his back pocket for safe keeping. He might need to call that number again someone. If he knew anything about where Zelda had gone, would he be posting a flyer trying to find her? No. No obviously not.

The voice in the back of his mind was screaming now, C_all him. Call him you idiot. She might be in trouble. You might learn something._

No. He told himself. Later. Tonight. He would find a payphone tonight when his face was covered and no one would be on the street to recognize him. That satisfied the voice in his head and shut it up. Link sat down at the station and waited for the bus to arrive. Before he went to Malladus' house—he would be less pressed for time, then. He wondered why exactly he would be gone all night.

It could not be later tonight—he would be asleep. He might not hear the phone, he might not answer it. Link looked back to the booth. It would need to be now—it would have to be now. Now would be fine—he was no where near where he lived, and if he did not give a name, maybe Ganondorf would not have any reason to focus on his single conversation. Lots of people were talking on the phone right now, and he had plenty of time before the bus arrived. He thought about standing up.

No—no what if he was paying attention to that phone line specifically—the Hylsen's line? What if Ganondorf was looking for her, too? Not many girls were named Zelda—it was more likely that she was _the_ Zelda, more likely that than he was _the_ Link, after all. His stomach turned into a knot, coiling tightly around itself. He felt cold all over. What if she was _the_ Zelda? He pressed his hands between his knees, then took out the flier again. He paid attention to the address—was Helmaroc Terrace far from Saria Street? He'd keep an eye out for it on his way.

To calm himself down, he went over the mental checklist of everything he had back at the house that he would need to gather up without waking Marin, and were they all were located. He had a pair of brass knuckles, a flash light, a pair of brass knuckles and sneakers that had been worn down at the sole to leave no distinct prints—just the shoe size. Thick leather gloves that would not leave prints if his touch was light enough, the lock picks. Half of that was already gathered up in the back pack. He had a black hoodie, and a tube scarf to hide his face, and a switch blade that he had gotten into the habit of carrying with him always. He had everything he needed—he would just have to avoid waking Marin up when he left.

That would be easy enough.

The bus came, and he went home. He sat at the back of the bus and flipped through the files. There was a map for him, and photographs of some of the more choice valuables. Malladus was in possession of two jeweled Stalfos skulls, and if the photograph, obviously taken with out his consent, was to be believed, he was using them as bookends. There were other things, necklaces, jewelry, a good silver tea service—there was no way Link would ever make it out with that. Why was it even included in the file? That was ridiculous. He poured over the map—Helmaroc Terrace would be about fifteen minutes out of his way.

This route had him taking a few convoluted back roads, going onto the main highway and then abandoning the Catherine under the underpass to continue on foot across Lon Lon Country Club's Golf Course.

Fair enough—he had legs that weren't broken. He figured there was a reason. A few places were circled, and there was a hand written note that said they were dead zones, holes in the surveillance web. One of them was Lon Lon Country Club.

For a moment, Link thought back to the map in the scrapyard—was that one of the circled locations? Had the Hero of Time scoped it out before it was constructed? He did not have time to go and check, unfortunately—if he did not get killed on the eighteenth hole, he would go back and check it out. But he had survived that one, so perhaps he would not find anything there, after all.

The bus stopped and he folded the map before anyone could see it. He got off with everyone else and took his usual route home, past Larry's hangout. They shared a glance or a second, then Larry went back to pretending to wash the Catherine motorcycle, then Link went on, past the Temple of Farore—and he felt a judgmental gaze bearing down on him. He was alone, so he took out the map again and continued to commit the route to memory. He folded it up again when he reached the house, put it away in the folder, and hid the folder in the best place he could think of, under the welcome mat—Marin should be home by now and she would notice it instantly if he brought it inside with him.

She was noticing details right and left these days. He had been coming home late some times, coming home tired, and with scratches and mild bruises. He bought the backpack that was tucked behind the couch and he figured it was a miracle she had not been around to see it, because she would be searching it if she had known—and of course she would would find his equipment if she did. She knew something was up still

She was sitting in one of the two arm chairs, staring at the wall. When he came in she did not look at him or say a word. She was wearing a t-shirt and sweat pants, with her hair down for the first time in a while. It still held the kinks and curls from her tight work-bun. Her feet were tucked under her and she had a mug of tea in her hands. Link offered a very awkward, "Hey."

She did not blink, "Hey."

She sounded pissed—not at him, but pissed. "W-what's going on? Did something happen?"

"Yes."

"What?"

She frowned and looked down at her mug of tea. "Lost my job at the bottling plant." she told him flatly, "I don't want to tell you—but you deserve to know anyway. So I'm telling you."

"You still have the job at the cafe and at the shop, though."

"That doesn't make me any less pissed off."

"You've got a point there." he confessed. Link sat down on the couch and started taking off his boots. "You see Aryll today?"

"No—I can't let her see me like this. Did you go?"

He felt bad saying it, but she would find out on her own. "No."

She nodded as if she understood, "What'd you do instead? You should have been home an hour ago."

"I—I had to go talk to some people." he answered.

"What people?"

He lied, "Beetle." he told her, "I went to go talk to Beetle. I figured he knows knows people—maybe some of those people were looking to put someone to work."

"What did he say?"

"Nothing. He did not have anything for me. He didn't know anyone."

"That's too bad."

"I'll go see Aryll tomorrow."

He worked at the grocery store—it was closer, and there was no way The Dentist would call him back so quickly. Someone would start to suspect something if he showed up too frequently, so he would not be distracted by anything. Marin took another sip of her tea and adjusted her position on the chair slightly, sinking back into the old cushions and trying to make herself warmer. She set the tea down and reached back for a blanket on the back of a chair, covering herself with it.

"I'll go look for work."

"No—Don't. You've got two jobs, that should be plenty. It's fine—just work more at the cafe."

"Cafe doesn't pay anything."

"You're nice." Link shook his head, "You're pretty. Are you trying to tell me you don't get good tips?"

"I don't get good tips." she tugged the blanket up higher and ran her fingers through her hair, catching a few strands that had fallen loose. She shook them off onto the floor and resumed drinking her tea. It was getting dark out side, and the lights were off—he could not see very well. He reached to the end table to turn on the lamp. The light diffused outwards, soft and warm, and hid the tired, ragged hollowness of their faces. It was hard to tell if the dark circles under Marin's eyes were running makeup, or from a lack of sleep. She always looked so run-down.

He wished she was sitting on the couch. He could have at least sat down beside her and given her a hug—but if she wanted a hug, she would be sitting on the couch, and she was not. He felt so distant. The living room felt like the entire world and the coffee table felt like a dark, muddy sea, with water stains and chips like whirlpools and white foam and a couple of coins spread out like islands.

They felt so distant. He tucked a knees under his chin and dwelled on it for a second. He had Marin had known each other for their entire lives. They had grown up next door to each other, before her mother had vanished and her father had turned to booze and his parents had died. They had spent every day together, gone to the park, walked home from school with Aryll, but then his parents died and they moved from the middle-class division of Eldin and to the slow, sleepy streets of Kakriko before it turned from a little retirement community to the slum it was today. When his grandmother had passed away, Marin just moved in because she was already eighteen and she could not stand living with her father anymore, so the two of them had gotten legal emancipation and had stayed in his grandmother's too-small house. At first it had just been her working, because they were young and stupid and she thought she could get through college and work and feed three people on one job, but the inheritance had dried up pretty fast, so she had to drop out of school—and then he had to do it, too. Not like he minded at all. It was boring and he hated everything anyway. She had family she could run too, it was staggeringly huge; but it also had a tradition of mooching and thievery, and they did not have another couch for anyone to sleep on. There was not room for anyone else. It was just a simple cottage, really.

He and Aryll did not have a single aunt, uncle, or a cousin. All they had was Marin.

And now this.

But what was _this,_ really? Was this the end? What was going to happen after this, for them? What happened when they just could not _go_ anymore?

Aryll would go to the state, maybe he would, too—he wasn't eighteen yet. He could become a ward of the state. What happened to wards of the state—named _Link_? Were there any wards of the state? He did not know—not really. What would happen to Marin? This would have been two years of her life given up for nothing, just because of Aryll.

It was not Aryll's fault. Link reminded himself. Aryll had not done anything wrong. She would be home soon—she would be home soon and the cost would seem worth it, but how was he going to hide the price from her? It was not like he could. Aryll would start to notice, and she was smart. She could see through almost every lie. What would they do about her?

Lie. It was the obvious choice. Keep lying. He asked, "You want dinner?"

"I had dinner." Marin replied, "I was angry and starving. I made dinner—but there's leftovers."

"Not yet." Link replied.

The distance grew. Link searched for something to talk about, but there was not anything. Aryll at least had things to say, so and so said this. So and so said that. So and so convinced some other Link that Ganondorf was coming to visit the school to kill him—just like that one kid. And he was scared, so I kicked his ass for him. Aren't you proud of me, Big Brother? Tell me you're proud of me—it's more than you've done. It was quiet with out her.

"I wish they'd release Aryll sooner."

"I know. I keep waking up and forgetting she's gone. I reach over and—no one's there. It's terrifying."

It was silent again.

"We'll get through this."

"That was when things were looking almost okay."

"Marin, don't worry—we're okay."

"I think we're very far from okay, Link."

She was right.

* * *

_Heavy Breathing._


	6. Chapter 6

Interlinking

(Disclaimed)

Heavy breathing intensifies.

* * *

Chapter six:

Link ran his tongue along his teeth. There was pain—pain in his gums, pain on his tongue as it scraped over the sharp, razor-like edges, pain in his cheeks, nicked and scraped, little ribbons of flesh in the inside of his mouth.

He looked down at his hand. There were tooth fragments on his palm, none of them were from the same tooth, some just came from the crown, others had split from the root. They floated in a little pool of blood in the palm of his hand. When he was about to swallow, he felt another piece of his tooth fall loose. He spit it out. Blood flowed over his fingers. He ran his tongue along his teeth again, and he could feel a soft, bloody pocket in his gums. Frightened, he took a deep breath and one—one that had held on until the last second few back, down his throat—it lodged there.

As he choked, he heard the Dentist laughing, saying to him, "I told you—you should have pulled that weak link when you had the chance."

Link awoke with a start at 11:59 exactly. Thinking quickly, he deactivated the alarm before it could go off and stopped for a moment to catch his breath. He started at the ceiling and listened. It was completely silent—except for a distant dog's bark. He had to move.

He turned on the flashlight and stuck it between his teeth to keep his hands free. He kicked off the blankets and stepped into his jeans which were between the couch and the coffee table, he pulled them up roughly by the belt, which was still threaded through the loops. He put on his socks next, but instead of his boots, he pulled out the sneakers that had been sanded clean of their treads from under the couch. He slipped them on and tied them quickly, propping his foot against the coffee table. He did not fold the blankets on the couch. If he left them spread out, Marin would think he just stepped out for some air if he left them. He opened the armoire in the corner. It had, at one point, been an entertainment center, but they had sold the TV and DVD player and now he used it to hold his clothes. He grabbed a random shirt, a blue and green plaid button-up, and tossed it to the couch.

He picked up the black backpack and checked to make sure everything was still inside. It was all clustered in the smallest compartment, towards the front. Switch blade, yes, brass knuckles, yes, lock picks, yes. Hoodie, check, bandanna, check. He moved the knife to his back pocket and felt the flier for Zelda already there. He remembered that he was going to try to get in contact with her father. He paused for a second, unfolded it, and scrawled quickly on the back, _Beetle's junkyard. Dinsday. Sunset. Come alone_. It was the first thing that came to mind. He stuffed it back into his pocket and then set the back pack down on the chair. He rolled up the plaid shirt and stuffed it inside, then slipped on the green t-shirt from yesterday and put on his jacket and cap.

He looked at the clock—that had taken about seven minutes.

His stomach growled.

He grabbed an apple and a bottle of water from the refrigerator, slipped the water into the side pocket of the backpack and kept the apple in his hand. It was not the most filling meal, but it would tide him over.

He zipped the backpack up as quietly as he could and to walked the door, not making a sound.

He opened the front door just enough for him to slip the backpack through first, then himself. He shut it again, just as quietly. When he was on the porch, he knelt down and grabbed the file from under the mat, and stuffed it in the back pack as well. If something happened to him, he would not want Marin to find it. He slipped the bag onto his back, pulled the straps tight, and walked down the stairs, keeping an eye on Marin's window, searching for light.

Nothing stirred inside.

He ate the apple as he walked, from the bottom up, core and all. He went along his usual route to the bus stop, to where Larry had stashed the Catherine. He was waiting there.

"Thought you wouldn't show."

"No—I keep my word." he slipped back against the wall and took off his denim jacket and hat, passing them to a body double. He took out the black hoodie and pulled it on over his head, then the bandanna, which he used to cover the lower half of his face. His double twisted her dark hair up and put the green cap on. "I want that jacket back."

"I'll be in Farore's church." the decoy replied before she walked away to stroll around the block and provided Link with a good alibi. The trick would not work in the richer parts of town, but here the cameras were cheap and grainy. Anything could trick them. Even a girl wearing his clothing. The important thing was that Link and the motorcycle would be seen as a single unit for the entire heist—and "he" would be the girl that walked around town in the middle of the night before going inside Farore's Temple, where Link would meet her, get his jacket and the cap back, and head home for another fifteen minutes of sleep before heading to work.

Larry grinned in amusement and pride. He handed Link the keys. "You remember how to use this thing?"

"Yes. I remember."

The driving lesson had only lasted about thirty minutes, but yes, he remembered. He took the keys from Larry, waved good bye, and drove off, keeping to the back roads. No one was around, so he could speed, but even then, it took two hours, or perhaps an hour and a half, to get there, not including the detour into Helmaroc Terrace. It was a clear night, but the sky was dim, the street lights snuffed out the stars and lit his way just fine. Link stopped at a red light and looked up for a second. There should be stars. He had never seen a sky filled with stars before. It was a half-moon tonight.

He felt like if the lights would all go out, the moon and the stars would still be enough to light his way. He went along the dark back streets for a while, through the neighborhoods of Faron, then crossing over into Eldin, and finally getting onto the freeway when he made it through a hole in the security net in a raggedy neighborhood in Eldin. He crossed over the town on the freeway. It was like a bridge, soaring over the little minor neighborhoods and passing right by Ganondorf's stronghold. He slowed for a while and watched it as it drove by. No one else was on the street. It felt like the entire city had been lit up brightly, then completely abandoned.

Could he jump the Catherine off of this freeway and land safely beyond the wall? Right into Ganondorf's backyard?

Probably not.

He passed by Cassiopia's Memorial Hospital. Some of the lights were on, most were off. The parking lot was half empty, and the graveyard shift was in full swing. He wondered about Aryll and hoped everything was going alright. He knew more people died during the night shift in hospitals because the staff on call was tired and small. But she was probably fine. She had survived the first night and it was unlikely that she was going to get any worse. She was fine.

He drove on, exiting the freeway in Lanayru. It was a different feel form the neighborhoods of Faron and Eldin. Wealthier, and more put together. He parked in a well-hidden spot, under the freeway, where river and waste water flowed together before being treated and funneled into the nicer parts of town, and into fountains and a couple of purely cosmetic lakes in public parks and Lon Lon Country Club. He left on foot, stuffing the keys in his back pocket and taking out the flier for Zelda. He checked the note on the back, was he really sure he wanted to do that?

Yeah—Beetle's scrapyard was the safest place he knew, and it was completely neutral ground.

There were no fences anywhere in this part of the city. He could just walk across the parking lot and through the golf course.

Gosh it was dark.

He took out the flash light and shined it before his feet. The grass was freshly watered, so the ground was springy and muddy, and in some places the sand traps were a little damp. He made sure to avoid them. Just because there were no treads on his shoes did not mean they could not at least get his shoe size or his weight. While he walked, he made sure his hood was still up and his face was still covered by the bandanna. He knew it was impossible to go about undetected—but it was possible for no one to know it was _him_ specifically.

He doubted the first Link had found anything interesting here. It did not look particularly spectacular—sure it was pretty, and it was nice to know that there were no cameras around, but he did not feel like it held any secrets. It was just _there. _That was it. It was just there.

That was a question for another time. Link went over the route again in his head. Head to Helmaroc Terrace, back track and got to the end of Saria Street. Get in fast, get out faster. Don't be seen. Head back to Lanayru and get the Catherine, and then head back to Eldin, to the Dentist's Office—or, rather, to the club. Once there, he would turn in what he took to a fellow called The Collector, change clothes again, and be on his way.

He went to his left first, past the big, granite and brick sign that said in beautiful, intertwining letters 'Helmaroc Terrace' and double checked the exact street address. 1987. The street itself curved in a big circle. Neither way seemed more right than the other, and that was because 1987 was on the opposite side from the entrance.

This place was something else. It looked like a place where she'd be from, certainly. The street lights were black-painted metal, made to look like old lamp-posts, and gleaming brightly. The lawns were manicured and all of the houses were identical—but The Hylsen house, complete with its monogrammed mailbox, stood dark between two other houses that were dark inside, but the lights above their doors were shining down the walkways up to their front gates. 1987 was completely black, inside and out, and an eerie hollowness seeped from it. Link stood there for a while, reminding himself that there could be someone watching, so he had better get a move on. As quickly as he could, he strode up to the house and slipped the folded-up flier through the door.

And then he moved on—but he kept checking back frequently. He had felt it when he turned away from the front door. It felt like someone was watching him now. Where was that feeling coming from?

"Your own head, idiot." he whispered to himself, "No one's there—you're fine."

It was a short walk, about ten minutes. A couple of dogs barked at him, but no lights came on. No one took the barks of their dogs seriously in a peaceful place like this, so Link was not bothered in the slightest by anything or anyone—even as he walked past a couple of signs warning him about the strict and alert neighborhood crime watch signs. He found the house of Cole Malladus, right there at the at the very end of the cul-de-sac that ended Saria Street, and walked right up to the front door, unseen by any human eye. He set the backpack down and set to work trying to pick the lock.

It came open easily. Link felt a chill as it swung open with a little creak. He expected an explosion—an electronic alarm to off, at least, but no. There was nothing. Had it just been a bad lock? Had Malladus left it open? Was he expecting something like this to happen? What there someone waiting inside?

Link crouched there, waiting. He did not hear anything. He took a deep breath and stood up, gripping the backpack firmly. This was pure and simple coincidence. Happenstance. Nothing more. He took the flashlight out of the pocket of his hoodie and shone the beam to the left and right. He did not see anything.

"Well—" he muttered to himself, shutting the door, "Let's get to work."

He checked every room, scanning them in a quick, dimly-lit frenzy for any electronic devices capable of storing data that were not full computers—which he could not carry. He moved as little as possible. He found a couple of old cell phones with no battery life, they could be wiped and sold again, right? A digital pictobox (why the hell not—he wanted one of those) and the cord that could connect to the computer, and two flash drives on the first floor, one in the kitchen junk drawer, one laying on the coffee table. He found some spare change in the couch, some paper money, and pocketed that as well. The Dentist said _anything_ he could carry, right? And Link had no interest in going across town with anything breakable. If he found money laying around, he was going to take it.

The carpet under his feet was plush and soft, so he did not make any noise as he walked, there was not a single creaking hinge or board in the place. The silence was pressing—frightening. More than once he thought he felt someone, or saw someone, a little shadow out of the corner of his eye, a little light, and a sound like jingling bells. When he turned around quickly, no one was there. It must have been his flash light reflecting off of a glass in the cupboard, or-

Link froze beside the dining room table, eyes fixed on the mirror. No. No he was positive this time. He could have _sworn_ he just saw a shadow slip past, calm and fluid, like a ghost. He blinked, nothing else moved. He shook his head, mumbled to himself that he was clearly just freaking out because he was in the middle of a burglary, but it was a burglary for a good cause, no matter what anyone else said. Aryll was worth it.

He moved on. He wished he could carry more, because it looked to him that everything left laying around could fetch him a tidy sum. He envied their money—he really did. He stopped to examine a mirror in the hallway just before the stairs. It might actually be mass-produced, but the design etched around the edge, dancing with the metal frame, was still something worth stopping to look at for a second.

He went up the stairs and went to the first door. It was a bathroom. Nothing of interest there. He went to the next room, a spare room, completely empty. He went to the room across from it, an office. The computer had been left on, but there were no flash drives or CD's just laying around. He searched the drawers, poking around an old wallet, empty, a gun—yikes—yellow note pads and a couple of black address books. Link picked one up and thumbed through it. If he could find something good for blackmail—could he bother with it? How easy would it be to prove it was a fake? Probably really easy, once he thought about it. Forgery was a good excuse for getting out of anything. He tossed them down quickly and he could have _sworn_ he heard a soft little gasp from somewhere else.

He jumped, scanning the room quickly. He did not see anything.

He hissed to himself, "Grow a pair, Link."

He looked around the room for anything else and saw a couple of photographs, a diploma, a few college trophies and one for second place in the local golf tournament. He looked to the other side of the room. There were books with titles he could not read in the poor light, a couple of little oddities, wooden puzzles that were impossible to put together once taken apart, things like that. Nothing worth taking.

Nothing incriminating appeared on the computer's desk top, either, so that was out. Link did not want to waste time going though the entire thing. Should he even take the gun? Could it be tracked? Maybe not—and he could find some use for it. He hated guns. Everyone had them, the Gerudo that answered to Ganondorf, the regular police, the Moblins and the gangsters. It would be smart to have a gun. He stuffed it in the backpack, then reconsidered—what if it went off accidentally? The crime was bad enough but what if _Marin_ found it? He returned it to the drawer. Gun safety was not something he had been taught yet.

But were they ever going to teach him if he did not have one? If they taught him, they'd be obligated to arm him, and while Link could not think of a reason they would not want that, he could not think of a reason they _would _want it, either.

"Oh!" he hissed to himself, "I'll just take the damn thing."

He stuffed it back into his back pack. He was fully aware of the danger, not just of the gun discharging, but of Marin finding it either deliberately or accidentally, or of Aryll finding it when she got home and hurting herself with it. He slung the backpack over his shoulder, and headed towards the master bedroom. He searched the room starting with the right-hand wall and dresser. Diamond cuff links, expensive watch, a tie clip that was _possibly_ solid gold, he gathered them up in a silk handkerchief to protect them and dropped the little parcel in the backpack. In the drawers there were folded shirts that would not suit him, though they would fit; trousers, socks, undershirts and briefs—it was good to know Malladus did not go commando. He found some raunchy DVDs he would have preferred he had _never _seen—it was not good to know what he was into. He put those back and went through the drawers that did not have socks and porn, then searched the closet, found nothing of interest in there, and then moved to the armiore that had been turned into entertainment center. There were two flash drives hidden in the messily-arranged DVDs. Link tossed them into his backpack and went to a different drawer.

There were various paper records in this one. Link thought they were just financial records and things he would not be able to make heads or tail of, or even use, but he noticed a CD case. He thumbed through them. They were all labeled with some kind of code made up of letters and numbers. Very suspicious-looking. He made sure his face was still covered by the bandanna and he stuffed them into the backpack. That CD case seemed like a pretty good find to him-better than the gold, as far as utility value was concerned. Anything could be on it—Malladus had certainly attempted to hide what it was. It could be something dangerous—digital records of some kind of corruption, or something completely benign, like pirated films.

He put the backpack on properly and headed down stairs. He went right back the way he came, locking the door behind him and cutting across the golf course. He kept his ears open, he really _really_ felt like he was being watched now, but when he turned to look, he did not see anything. He could have _sworn_ he heard someone moving around behind him though. He forced himself to dismiss it as paranoia and kept going, back to the Catherine. He was not expecting to see another car on the road, but there was one. A beat-up black Armos. Certainly not a police car—and nothing the Gerudo Secret Police drove. This one was missing a head light and had a bad crack in the windshield. It was distinctive. Very distinctive.

So Link noticed it.

The first time was a gas station in Lanayru near where he had hidden the motorcycle. The next, it casually drove along behind him in the highway—but did not follow him off in Eldin. By this time, he told himself that logically, it was just a coincidence. Yes. A complete coincidence that two of the only people on the road at three in the morning were heading the same direction.

He drove to the bar under the insurance office next to the Dentist's office, parked the motorcycle in an opposite alleyway and then went in. He shouted into the ear of the Moblin in charge of letting people in, _"I'M LINK—I have an appointment_!"

"_IN THE BACK._"

"_THANK YOU._"

He was allowed in with out any ID or the hassle of a wristband. He wove through the crowd and went into the office on the far wall. It was sound proofed completely, and silent inside. There was a Moblin sitting behind the desk in a comfortable chair. He leaned back, crossed his ankles on the desk, and held a lit cigar between his fingers, raising it slowly to smiling and puckered lips. He grinned broadly when he saw link and said gleefully, "Yo, fresh meat."

That was the Collector. He took the stolen goods and re-sold them to third parties, and he was the cousin of the man that ran the insurance office above their heads, which was used in turn to launder the money the Moblins collected. He was big, like most Moblins were, but he was also uncharacteristically tall and sinewy_._ He was as tall as a Goron. His teeth were a little crooked, and the right tusk had been broken some time ago, it was capped off with a horn of a shiny silvery metal—but it was not silver. The Dentist would never use anything so precious on such a big job. It was polished and chemically treated aluminum. He was dark, too—not the brownish-pink of Larry or the Dentist, but a darker, almost bluish black, with a few pale pink splotches, one on the back of his hand, one on top of his head. There was a scar running over his eyebrow to the tip of his nose, a little slash that went all the way to his left nostril.

Mindful of the gun, Link set the back pack down on the desk in front of the Collector's feet and took out everything he had stolen, the USB drives, the book of compact discs, the digital pictobox, the cell phones, and the handkerchief of valuables. His hand rested on the gun briefly, but he did not take it out. He stepped back, took of the bandanna and hoodie, and then changed into the plaid shirt, stuffing the old clothes in to the backpack over the gun and closing it again, "Is that good?"

"Yeah." he nodded, picking it over, fiddling with the knot on the handkerchief-he failed to get it open. He jogged it on the table, and upon hearing the metallic clinks inside, he nodded approvingly, "Good, good—we'll look through it and see if its really good or just okay."

"That's it?"

He shrugged, "Yeah—that's it. Not bad for a first try." He tapped a dark finger into the CD case, "This looks really promising here, actually—Good find, rookie. Care for a drink on the house?"

Link considered it. He felt slightly frazzled, but he knew he had to start the long walk home, and there was no way he could do that safely if he was intoxicated. "No. I'm good." he replied, "Catherine's across the street."

And that was the end of it.

He turned on his heel and walked out of the bar, back onto the street.

And he saw the Black Armos again.

It was about two blocks away, but he was positive, yes, it was the same one. The lights were off and it did not seem to be running. Link backed away from it, turned the corner, and headed home. It was a long walk across Faron to Kakariko, but he had taken longer. Crossing the highway was the only dangerous part, and no one was out, so it was easier than it could have been. The time did not bother him. It was the cold. He could not put on the hoodie for warmth, he could not be seen wearing it again. He should have gotten something warmer. He missed his hat and denim jacket. He managed to keep warm by running, but the backpack jostled dangerously on his back. He remembered the gun and slowed his pace. He breathed into his hands and cursed himself for for not having gloves.

By his reckoning it was about four in the morning by the time he doors of the temple of Farore swung shut behind him. He had not seen the Black Armos or heard any sign of another person since crossing the highway. He found his cap and jacket in the third pew from the front on the left side. Link changed shirts again, put on the jacket and cap, and turned to leave.

And there it was again.

That feeling like he was being watched.

He stopped in his tracks and turned around. All he saw was the alter, and Farore's idol standing there, staring him down. He had never felt any kind of religious pull before, no call from the Goddesses, no need to pray. He felt it now. He walked down the aisle, his footsteps echoed off the walls. He kept his eyes fixed of Farore's idol towering above him. Her hands were folded elegantly over a great sword that was planted at her feet, her smooth, plaster features fixed in a look of resilient courage, her eyes fixed forward, like he was not worth looking at, like he was an abysmal failure.

He was conflicted. He knew what he had to do. He had to resort to crime because he could not stand to lose Aryll and Marin. He had worked to hard to float by. He hated trying to hide it from Marin, and he hated putting them in danger. He hated the very idea of Ganondorf. He hated that he was able to get away with nearly killing so many people—particularly Aryll. Mostly Aryll. Only Aryll. He hated that he had the Triforce—he hated that there could not be another Hero of Time without it.

He hated that judgmental look on her face.

Link was not an idiot. He knew arguing with a statue would get him no where.

"You wouldn't understand." he found himself saying, "You couldn't understand. You have no idea what it's like to be stuck in the fringes of society. My little sister was poisoned—she's one of the two things I've got left and I'll die before anyone takes her away from me. I'm supposed to be taking care of her—"

This was stupid. Link was talking to himself. He stared up at the statue, a little pissed off, but he was calming down quickly. He took a deep breath, relaxed his shoulders and straightened up, squaring up against the statue for Farore. The judgmental expression on her face did not change. She was not saying a word to him—that's how insignificant and unworthy he was.

"It feels like we've come to a disagreement about where my life is supposed to go, okay? If you're trying to give me a sign—don't put my sister in danger to do it, just speak up next time. Am I supposed to be taking the hints that I'm he Hero of Time because that feels like what, you know, all of this is heading towards—but I could have sworn the Hero of Time has, you know, courage to go along with the unbreakable spirit? And the Triforce. I'm pretty sure that's kind of integral."

Silence.

"I'm just asking for something a little more definitive that vague hints."

More silence.

Then, from the back of the church, Link heard the door slamming shut.

He turned around quickly, but he saw nothing. He listened for anything else—and he felt the tips of his ears burning. He had been _positive_ no one else had been around. He swallowed dryly. There its was again. There was that feeling. Cautiously, he took a step forward, then another, keeping his eyes glued on the door. He threw them open—did not see anyone—but he certainly felt something. He closed the doors softly and turned around.

Standing there in the middle of the aisle, completely in the light, was a shadow.

His shadow.

Well—okay that was not exactly what he had asked for but it _was_ a definitive sign.

* * *

I think I've discovered something. I'm calling it the five chapter curse. I always have difficulty with the fifth chapter-but next chapter's already written, good thing, too-that is not a pleasant cliffhanger.


	7. Chapter 7

Interlinking

(Disclaimed)

REFERENCE ALL THE GAMES.

* * *

Chapter seven:

They faced off in silence for a while. His shadow stood there, tall and confident, hands outstretched, held away from his sides. Link reached for the knife in his back pocket—his shadow made the same movement, right handed—truly a mirror of himself. What would he do? Sure, he did not have a lot of experience—but could he still manage to beat his own shadow? He stepped forward and a little to the right—the shadow mirrored him perfectly, head bowing lower, face coming forward, shoulders arching, like an animal ready to pounce.

It was too early for this.

Link thrust the knife forward, the shadow swung his leg up and stepped back, trapping the knife against the edge of the pew and standing on the blade. He hopped upwards, twisting his body so the knife was wrenched from his hand—and then the Shadow lost balance, tumbling backwards into the next row back and falling onto the dark green cushion, then onto the carpet. It the cushion from the nearest pew and bopped him in the side of the head with it, then jabbed it into his forehead. It was not enough to hurt him, just distract him. When Link batted the green foam cushion away, the Shadow was gone. He took a step back.

Where did it go? Where did it go?

He felt something smack him on the back of the head and the slightest of giggles. The shadow danced away. Link was suspicious of that skill—it was not his own. He fumbled for the knife and straightened out again. He took a dive, heading for the Shadow, knife drawn, and it met him head on—but it did not try to stab him. He batted his hand to the side, painfully knocking his forearm into the pews and delivered a quick, stinging strike to the bridge of his nose with the heel of his hand. The Shadow side-stepped out of his reach and then took his knees out from under him.

If this was a message from the Goddesses; they were clearly tell him they were unimpressed and he sucked. The Shadow rolled away and perched on the steps before the altar, knife in hand, sizing him up, but waiting politely for him to get his act together before going in for the finishing blow. It was the Shadow and Farore's idol now, both judging him. He let go of a breath he had not known he had been holding, and then he straightened up. So did his Shadow.

Mindful of the gun, Link set down the backpack and faced off against his black doppelganger again—it was the Shadow's turn to move first, he ran, not to Link, but to the pews, where he rushed upwards, and ran towards him, feet landing perfectly on the backs each time. He lept off, and it looked like his foot was going to hit home on Link's head. He yelped and ducked, very un-heroically, and by the time he looked up again, the Shadow had once again vanished with out a trace—and this time, he did not look to be coming back.

"What..?" Link spun around quickly, confused, a little angry, until he saw motion out of the corner of his eye, a sliver of black against the deep green carpet, huddled there, head hidden in the crook of his arm, fighting back a mad fit of giggles. Link felt his ears and cheeks burning. It was not a shadow of himself. It was some jackass dressed entirely in black and crawling around under the pews.

"Wait a second!"

"Aw, Nayru's Love, _finally!" _the 'Shadow' snickering in a voice that was clearly not an echo of Link's. He crawled along, out into the aisle, but did not straighten up. Instead, he just hooked a thumb under his black ski mask and jerked it up. He was red-faced underneath, and a little sweaty, "I thought you'd never figure it out."

"Jackass."

"Maybe, but the look on your face made it worth it!"

Link was at a loss for words. "Jackass."

"Yes, yes."

"I'm in the middle of an identity crisis and you're running around playing pret—WHO EVEN ARE YOU?"

"Not the one that think's he's the Hero of Time, _that's who_." he replied bluntly, a cheeky grin spreading out over his features. His eyes were smudged with black paint, like a raccoon. His teeth were a little crooked, so was his smile. He reached up and whipped off the ski mask the rest of the way and ran a hand through his matted, strawberry blonde hair, giving it a ruffle. It was the same color as the stubbly hair that covered his square jaw. He was Human, not Hylian. He propped his chin on his hand and drummed his fingers lazily against his broad cheek. In a childish way, he crossed his ankles and swung his feet forwards and back.

Also, he was right.

"Jackass"

"Yeah." he tilted his head, "Sorry. I'll buy you breakfast?"

"I could have killed you."

His nostrils flared, he squinted, and he shook his head in a dismissive, amused manner, "Number one; no you couldn't. Number two; I'm buying you breakfast anyway."

The offer of breakfast was temping. Link was starving. The stranger got up, dusted himself off, and rolled up his ski mask, tucking it away in his jacket pocket.

"Why did you do that?!"

"You looted my target!" he replied. He crossed his arms and feigned indignant judgment, "How dare you?"

"But how did you get here? How did you recognize me?"

"Well I—I followed you. I was curious. I saw how fast you picked that lock but everything else about your work seemed kind of—meh."

"How _long_ did you follow me?"

He did not answer directly, "Long enough to work up an appetite okay?—Let's get breakfast."

Link picked up the backpack and put the switchblade away. He was angry—but also famished. His legs were tired and he figured if there was any day for a large breakfast, it was today. He had made it a habit to foolishly trust strangers—why not this one? They walked out of the church together, and there was the Black Armos, right there in plain sight.

"How did you know I'd be here?"

He did not answer, but he did not hedge, "Hush, no, you'll ruin the magic."

It was nice inside, cleaned except for a few scraps of paper, receipts, and a little air freshener hanging from the mirror, though it did not need it. The car was just fine. They drove to a little restaurant called Telma's. It was a chain joint, the kind of place that would always be open, even at four in the morning. The waitstaff was usually surly and sleepy at this hour, so the both made a point of being quiet, polite and understanding. They were shown to a booth near the entrance to the kitchen, ordered black coffee and water both. Link, never a big eater, simply asked for pancakes and coffee while his new companion ordered a full spread, acting like it would be his last meal on earth.

"Never caught your name." he observed after they had ordered. He propped an elbow on the clean table and leaned forward. There were creases in the black paint around his eyes. It looked oily and uncomfortable.

"Link."

"Oh—Me too. Small world. You got a last name? Middle name?" With out really looking, he grabbed a napkin from the metal dispenser.

"Smith." Link answered.

"Call me Blake." he replied, he began to rub at his eyes, opening them wide to get the make up on the inner edges of his eye lids, and Link saw that his eyes were not just a simple brown. They held just a hint of dark red. He did not get much of the oily makeup off, just smudged it about a little more-though there was a great deal on the napkin when he crumpled it up and set it aside. "Seeing as we've got the same first name, might as well skip on to that one." He glanced around, chin still on his hand, a little frown on his face.

Link followed his eyes. The design on the inside of the restaurant was garish, and the emptiness and the bright lights above their heads just made it all stand out more—purple and red-violet, dotted with bright yellow, and a little sky-blue, to match the neon sign out front that read 'Telma's' in fluid letters. It was clean, though, and that was what mattered. The windows were plastered with adds for their specials and the front door had a friendly reminder about the Kakariko High School football game that happened last two or three days ago.

Blake took another napkin and tried again to wipe off his eyes, it remained in dark smudges in the inner and outer corners of his eyelids.

A server brought them their water and coffee. Link wondered, briefly, if he could trust it, but he was pretty sure they would have said something about it. He risked taking a sip—felt okay. He took a deeper swig. Blake looked in the caddy and shifted through the pre-packaged jams, until he found a couple of black berry and he set them out beside he coffee, waiting for toast. Link thought about getting to work, then the thought about Dinsday and the meeting in the scrapyard, and the visit he owed Aryll.

"What are you thinking about?" Blake asked suddenly.

"My sister."

"Ah." That was no much by way of conversation, and he figured Blake would find a way to swing it back to the robbery sooner or later. Blake nodded, frowning deeply as if he was making a mental note about something, "Is that all you've got? One sister?"

Link considered his answer carefully. No, he did not just have one sister—he also had Marin. Marin could be difficult to explain properly, so he half-lied, "Two sisters—one younger, one older. No parents."

"Oh." Blake's eyes shifted, "I'm sorry to hear that."

"What about you?"

"Oh—yes, I've got parents. I've got a sister, too. Older one. It's strange to say it, but she'd a—" Blake laughed at some inside joke, "Ah, you would not believe me, never mind. She thinks I'm the perfect example of a college student, you know."

He was in college?

Link hissed, "To hell with _my _motives. You've got parents and a career ahead of you—what the hell are you doing risking it all on this?"

Blake's eyes drifted to the side and away as if there was a truly gripping tale to tell about it, he sighed longingly, pursed his lips, and then looked back to Link, "What about you? What made you take the plunge? You're obviously defensive about it."

Link got defensive: "Am not!"

Blake raised his eyebrows and tilted his chin down, giving him a look that clearly said he was taking none of Link's shit. "You were shouting at a statue."

"My sister." he explained, "When the water was poisoned, she was one of the ones effected."

"Oh." Blake paused, coffee cup halfway to his lips. His expression abruptly changed from jabbing skepticism to genuine concern, "I'm so sorry to hear that? Is she—did she survive?"

"Yes."

Relieved, Blake nodded and resumed drinking his coffee, Link resumed telling his tale, "But we would never get the money together to pay for her treatment—or we'd be paying it for years. So I went to the Moblins."

Blake almost choked on his coffee. Link saw him very nearly spit it out, then he remembered he needed to behave with some dignity and _not_ make a mess for some poor server to clean up, so he took a breath through his nose, swallowed it, and breathed out again. He pressed his hand, fingers spread, against the edge of the table and asked in a slow, straining voice, "You—you did _what_?"

Link could not see his problem. He straightened up in his seat and said clearly, "I went to the Moblins and we reached an agreement, they would pay me and I would work for them."

Blake rubbed his temples, then ran his fingers roughly over his red-blond eyebrows, down the sides of his nose and to his chin, leaving two long black streaks. He did not say a word. His face held all the disapproval he needed to convey.

"What? It's not like they would do anything to M—"

"No!"

"—arin or Aryll—"

"Now I know their names!_ Why did you do that!?_"

"If I was killed—we agreed. They would never do anything to them."

"It never crossed your mind that, you know, if you died there would be literally no one stopping them from doing it anyway?"

Blake looked down at his hand and saw the black on his fingers. He wiped them on the condensation of the edge of his water glass, then rubbed a napkin over the outside, getting as much water as he could. He started to scrub his chin and around his mouth. Link thought about it. No. No he had not. He did not have a convincing reply, so he just asked, "You don't trust Moblins? That's kind of racist."

"It's not that they're Moblins. If you told me you had gone to be an informant to the Gerudo—or, Hylia forbid, the Bombers," he began to count on his fingers, "Or-or the Triforce Triads, or the Poe Boys—I'd say the same thing—You can't trust criminals."

"You're a criminal."

"And so are you, dummy." he replied, "But, look, at least I'm not self-serving—Wait. No I _am_ self serving but I'm not self-serving at the expense of—Okay, no I'm that too but I'm self-serving at the expense of people that _deserve_ it. Your sisters don't have any idea you did it, right?"

"Of course not—I wouldn't want to worry them."

"Oh, yes, delightful, how sweet. That's very kind of you." Blake did not mean that. "Now when you get yourself killed they'll have no idea_ why_ the rug gets rudely jerked out from under their feet. You're a real great brother, you know that?"

Link tried to avoid raising his voice, "Well, what about your family?"

"Completely safe." Blake replied, leaning back, "Because I work for myself. An option that is now closed of to your forever because you—"

What ever anger had been there faded quickly. Blake looked away and saw that their breakfast was on the way. He went quiet while the waiter came over and delivered their food, then topped off Blake's coffee. He had the memory of a nasty black eye, but a jolly glimmer there, too, and a split on his lower lip with an absent-minded grin and a spring to his step. He was the only happy waiter in the place. When he walked away, Blake continued, much calmer now that he was spreading blackberry jam on his toast, "—This is the heart of Moblin Territory. It's different for me. I live in Lanayru. We don't have gangs there—well, we DO but it's just the Bombers and they're little boys, much like you—other independents. We have our share of issues with the Moblin gang but mostly, we don't clash. You made a shitty choice, but you made the best shitty choice available to you. It would have been smarter to go to a money lender—but you're, what? Fifteen? No one would loan money to you—and lenders in Kakariko are horrible. Linebeck's the nicest one and I still deliver my goods to him with a fishing pole. And even if you did, you would _still_ end up owing someone when all was said and done."

"I'm seventeen."

"Oh. You don't look it." he replied. He took a bite of toast, "Look—I'm sorry I got upset with you. Eat your breakfast. I'm still paying for it."

"And they wouldn't do anything to Aryll she's only—she's barely fifteen."

Blake frowned at him, he clearly did not believe him, if the pursed lips and rolled eyes proved anything, but he did not say anything about it. He did not try to make a point of anything, he just muttered, "Fine—Fine they wouldn't do anything to Aryll she's only fifteen." then he muttered in an even lower tone, "Nayru give me the love needed not to pop a cap in this poor boy's ass." he heaved a sigh through his teeth, then shook his head, disgusted with himself and every thing around him, devoting his time to scarfing down his breakfast. Link followed his lead, and managed to grow comfortable before Blake interrupted him again, "So—if Aryll was your motivation, what's our local Hero of Time going to do about the poison in the water supply? Or did you already do something?"

Link did not want to talk, but he did, "I'm going to the water treatment plant sometime, sure."

"Yeah, but when?"

"What? You want to help?"

"Well—I almost feel obligated, knowing what I know. But it's obvious you're not going tonight." Blake had found a subject he could press, and so he pressed it, "Dinsday?"

"No. Not Dinsday. Heard it was going to freeze."

And he had that meeting.

Blake nodded, "True enough—but the evidence is going to get washed away very soon, don't you think? Tonight would have been the night to do it. Tomorrow might be our only shot—or perhaps tonight."

"It probably already has." Link replied, "But I'm still going to see if I can find anything. There has to be something. Even if its just a record of what was put in it—it got to so many people, there had to be a lot of it, right? There has to be something Ganondorf left behind."

"No—No I'd advise against it now." He shook his head, "Ganondorf cleans up pretty good. He's very thorough. You want to find something, you have to right to the source. You have to break into the fortress itself to even catch a glimpse of his dirt."

"And I'm guessing you think together we'll be able to pull it off? You want to do _that_?"

Blake laughed, his eyes closed and his shoulders shook with it, "Oh—Oh maybe—but I'm not dumb enough to try!" he stopped laughing, bent over, and warned him, "Even with an army I would not touch that place."

"Triforce isn't a tempting enough prize for you?"

"I don't steal what I want—I steal what I can sell. I steal what gets me a profit. Its tempting, but all of the money in the world could not get me to glance at those damn golden triangles."

This was leading up to something. It was written all over his face. Link figured he might as well play along. He tried to sigh with annoyance, but just wound up smiling, "What would get you to glance at them, Blake?"

"All the Golden Leaf ale in the city, and a pretty, red-headed girl to serve it up—but I don't think the Triforce grants wishes like that."

He did not like where that ended up. He figured the Triforce could give you knowledge, bravery and supernatural abilities, wishes like _that_. Which, admittedly, were things that the every-man like Blake, or even himself, would never wish for. So, no, he did not think so. He thought of the only redhead he knew, and tried to imagine Marin agreeing to serve Golden Leaf Ale to anyone, considering it was the alcohol that drove her father to a mad stupor every night. He doubted it. Certainly not a complete stranger. The very idea offended him just a little bit. He frowned "_Must_ she be a redhead?"

"Yes."

Link did not mention Marin. He figured the less said about her the better. So, yes, he did know the perfect allure of a red-headed woman, the clear blue eyes, the white skin that never tanned—only freckled—and there was, of course, the fiery temperament, which Marin adamantly dismissed as stereotyping and falsehood, but Link had learned to regard it as empirical, quantifiable truth. There were a great many _other_ things about Marin that came to mind, too; how she cared too much, and worried too much, and had probably been meant for something great, like a lawyer or a doctor, or something fantastic, like a singer or an artist. Link thought about how she used to sing, and it occurred to him that he had not heard it in years.

And it was such a little thing, in the grand scheme, but he missed it, so much so suddenly. He missed her singing. What else did he miss? He missed being a child, having a real family and no cares in the world. He missed going to Spectacle Park on weekends, the Abigail Preserve, the museums around New Hyrule, the lake during the summer. That took him back to another time—when they were younger, he was five and she was seven, and because neither one had cared, they had left their sleeping bags early, rushed down to the waters edge and stripped down to nothing; dove in, swam far away from shore and watched the sunrise from what felt to them, and their short limbs, to be miles out. His parents pulled them out of the water quickly, and scolded them for being in the lake unsupervised. Marin's mother was upset because she had chosen to do it naked.

He had not understood why she was mad at the time, but he had been young, and he had not known much about the world, or about bodies, or about people in general. It was not until recently that he had found himself staring up at the ceiling at night, wondering what Marin looked like undressed _now, _trying to fill in the gaps in his own mind of the shape she took under her dress,that he realized, o_h—this is it. This is why she was upset._ Usually when he remembered that, he tried to push thoughts of Marin's body from his mind, he tried to remind himself of the formless little girl he had seen in the murky water, how he was just like a kid brother to her, how the entire balance of their lives depended on _not_ developing feelings like that for each other, because they always, always went sour. When that failed, and that usually failed, he tried to remind himself that she was just in the next room and the walls were thin—and so was Aryll and either one of them would be able to hear him if—

"What's with _that_ look?" Blake frowned, "What are you thinking about_ now_?"

Link asked again, with a little tinge of jealousy, "But really—must she?"

Blake replied in a flat and authoritative tone, "Yes. She must. Get yourself a ginger, boy—your life will turn around instantly."

Once again, Link did not mention Marin. He thought back to the stunt he had pulled in Farore's church and figured this was just _one more _reason to not like Link Blake—but just because he did not really like him did not mean he did not trust him. He did not really like the Moblins, though Larry was nice enough, and he trusted them enough. Link looked down at his pancakes. Everyone needed something to worship. Marin had her Golden Goddesses, Ganondorf had his Tri-force, the Moblins had money, and for Blake, it must be the magical life-altering power of redheaded women. Who was Link—the guy who did not have anything to believe in—to judge?

"Sorry—you have a red-headed ex or something?"

"No." He had a red-headed "never happening" but Link did not say that out loud, because he would have to say that it was his "sister" and that would be awkward, of course he could just come clean and say Marin was not his sister but—Link got the feeling he would get a little bit more amusement out of _not_ telling him the truth.

Blake gave him a brief side eye and tapped his fork against the side of his plate then set it down. He gave his next statement the dignity of being said sitting up and _not_ talking with his mouthful.

"Look, I'm a nice fellow."

Link looked up at him. He nudged the plate away and folded his arms on the table and said frankly, "I can't help you get out of this—I really can't. I'm sorry, but you've made this bed, lie in it. I can at least add a few extra pillows. I can make you someone they will want in their corner—someone they would not screw over lightly. That's the best protection you can get for Marin and Aryll—I'll do what I can for you, for their sake."

* * *

You guys want a chapter about Marin?

Too fucking bad you're getting a chapter about Marin.

Don't get me wrong, I LIKE Link, but he's shit for world-building, really. He just doesn't notice enough. He notices the wrong things. He moves too fast, too plot-oriented. So Link's taking a backseat for this chapter and we'll get a look at Marin—I kind of owe to her.


End file.
